


Dangerous Things

by CMackenzie



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:56:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 34,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMackenzie/pseuds/CMackenzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica is never coming back. Snapshots of Logan's self-destructive ways after Veronica left Hearst at the end of Season 3. This is a companion piece to my stories "Come Back to Me" and "A Closed Set" and offers a brief glimpse at the sketchy and dangerous things Logan was doing when he thought he'd never see Veronica again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 215 DAYS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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>  [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2rqytj9)   
>    
> 

**215 DAYS**

It wasn’t _the_ bridge, but it was _a_ bridge. _Fear is temporary, regret is permanent_. Logan finished the bottle of Jack and tossed it over the edge; watching as it fell the 365 feet, 165 feet more than his mother’s jump, and was swallowed by the churning water below. The rushing sound of nearby Victoria Falls echoed the same vacant rushing sound in his brain. He stepped to the edge, no hesitation, no second thoughts, and jumped. The ten seconds of falling and Logan felt more alive than he had in months until the bungee cord pulled him back from the brink and the word _coward_ exploded through his head. He didn’t know if it was directed at his mother for giving up on her life or at himself for holding on to his.

His body dangled from the cord, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. A perfect analogy since that was all he had left now- _time_ and it was _endless_. He was positive there were more than twenty four hours in each of his days. He was literally in two places at once, Zambia and Zimbabwe and yet he felt like he didn’t exist at all, not since that day. Actually he didn’t know where to start counting. Was it ‘ _you’re out of my life forever’_ (215 days ago), or five days later in the cafeteria ‘ _it’s gonna take some time’_ (210 days ago), or twelve weeks after when he got the news _‘Veronica’s not coming back to Neptune_ ’ (119 days ago). _Definitely 215 days_.

Logan let them detach the harness and pull him into the boat, a raft really. This was his third jump and he wanted to do it again, but with more booze this time. You weren’t allowed to drink or be drunk; those were the rules, but as he learned from dear old Dad, money meant rules didn’t apply. He was in Africa. His trust fund could probably support the entire continent for the next several years thanks to a sudden influx of residuals and hidden assets. _Thanks Papa_.

In Africa and alone for Christmas break and still entirely too sober. On the bright side, he could be with Parker in Denver. _God, I’m glad she’s gone_. He’d found the perfect combination of alcohol, drugs and mindless sex with Parker to get him through the summer and the first semester of his sophomore year at Hearst. Then she had to get _clingy_ and start talking about _The Future_ , throwing around words like marriage and commitment. _Parker, are you blind? I’ve been using you to forget Veronica and it’s just not working for me anymore, but hey thanks for playing. Don Pardo, tell her what she’s won._

He’d been careful to avoid anyone who might remind him of Veronica. The one class he had with Wallace, he immediately dropped and he stopped calling Mac. It was harder to avoid the places. All of fucking Neptune reminded him of _her_. His first order of business was moving out of the Grand. The apartment, _closet_ , he rented was a shithole, but it was in a neighborhood they’d never been to. _She_ might’ve gone there on one of _her_ cases, but they’d never been there _together_. It was in a crappy twelve block radius of no memories and it was right above a liquor store. _Perfection_.

Dick had been harder to ditch. His one and only friend and even he brought up too many memories attached to _her_. Seeing Dick made him think of Beaver, which made him think… _fuck_ , he was doing it again, _see, entirely too sober_.

Logan looked around. He vaguely remembered getting out of the boat, _raft_ , and walking, but he had no fucking clue where he was now. More importantly, he had no idea where to get more alcohol. _Fuck you, Veronica_.


	2. 236 DAYS

**236 DAYS**

He wrote her another letter. _God, I’m fucking pathetic_. Logan was pretty sure he was supposed to be back in Neptune. Classes had already started, but he didn’t want to leave… _where the fuck am I?_ The live reggae music was making his head hurt, but the view was amazing. Especially the very tan, topless beauty with the cinnamon hair, _no more blondes thank you very much_ , and the dark eyes. _What did Neil Young sing? I could be happy the rest of my life with a cinnamon girl_.

The waitress brought him another round of shots. Six little glasses with the red, yellow and green logo and the words _The World Famous, Rick’s Café_ emblazoned across the side. Logan knew there was an obligatory Casablanca reference to be made here, but he didn’t feel like it. Besides, he wasn’t in Morocco, he was in… _Jamaica_ _... Negril, Jamaica_ and he was here to cliff dive, _tombstoning_ , is what they called it. He made eye contact with Cinnamon Girl and pushed three of his shots across the table toward the empty seat opposite him. She smiled and he gave her the soulful stare and beckoning half smile in return.

When she was close enough to the table to hear him, he said, “please don’t make me drink alone.” As far as pick up lines went, it sucked, but he didn’t really give a fuck. She could take him up on his offer or he could move on to the next one. It didn’t matter. Eventually he would find one who said yes and he wouldn’t have to be alone tonight. Cinnamon picked up one of the shots and threw it back like a pro. _She probably swallows_.

She joined him at the table for the next two shots and then he ordered another round. He listened to her, but he wasn’t really paying attention. Logan was retaining just enough information to fake it; _name? Not important. Here on vacation from? Don’t care_. “Do you want to get out of here?” That, he heard.

They went back to her hotel room. In Zambia, he made the mistake of taking… _Dusky Jewel, ‘her arms are wicked and her legs are long’…_ to his room and it took forever to make her leave. He wasn’t going to be doing that again. Better their room where he could slip out once they were asleep. Cinnamon was taller than Veronica. It made it easier to stop and engage in hot, wet kisses on their walk to the Seastar Inn. No bending down or leaning over required. Her mouth, right there, level with his. She tasted like tequila and seawater.

There were condoms in his pocket. _Traveling light was the way to go- condoms and cash_. The hotel room was the same as a thousand other hotel rooms; queen-sized bed with scratchy sheets, two nightstands and cheap artwork. Once the door closed behind them, his hands skimmed down her sides and over lush curves. He kissed her while his fingers undid the ties holding up her tiny white bikini briefs. From drinks to completely naked in under an hour, _my new personal best_.

Her hands were fisted in his t-shirt and she was pulling him toward the bed. Logan let himself be led. They fell on the mattress, a tangle of arms and legs, their mouths still joined. He palmed her breasts, rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers; gentle at first and then a little rougher until he found the right pressure to make her moan. Tearing his mouth away from hers, he kissed down her throat. _No marshmallows and promises_. Her skin smelled like coconut oil and sunshine.

Logan was still dressed. He moved off the bed. Cinnamon propped herself up on her elbows to watch him. She pulled one leg up, bending it at the knee and invitingly parted her thighs. _A Hollywood wax; completely bare_. Tossing the condoms on the bed, Logan divested himself of his clothes and slid up her body. Her eyes were so dark, the pupils and irises blended together in an inky pool, but all he saw was blue. Squeezing his eyes closed, he kissed her. It was a punishing kiss; an assault, bruising lips, clacking teeth, and clashing tongues. _Not her_.

His hands found her breasts again; tweaking and pulling at her nipples until they were tight and throbbing beneath his fingers. Cinnamon was moaning against his lips. They were deep, guttural sounds nothing like the breathless pants and the soft whimpers that Veronica… _fuck_. He needed to think about something else. Logan caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged on it before pulling it into his mouth and sucking. _She tastes wrong_.

The _before-Veronica_ Logan cared.  He wanted to be redeemed, _saved even_ , and reformed. That Logan wanted someone to love him. To think enough of him to stick around, to maybe utter the words _I love you_ and mean them. He _cared_ if it was good for them; if they were satisfied. _No skimping on foreplay_. This new Logan, _after-Veronica Logan_ , didn’t give a fuck. There was no heart left to care. Not after Veronica ripped it from his chest and stomped all over it with her butch boots.

This wasn’t working for him. He was still soft. Logan let his mind drift. The first time he slept with Veronica was awkward. He’d been so afraid of hurting her. Not just physically, but emotionally. When he told her _if the cuddling is the best part, he didn’t do it right_ , he said it to hurt her because he was angry and jealous. He didn’t know how close to the truth his words actually were. Not until he realized Duncan didn’t do anything for her; didn’t make sure she got off. _Kind of like what you’re doing now with Cinnamon_.

Logan dragged his mind back to the woman beneath him. He planted sloppy, wet kisses down her flat belly and moved down the bed. His tongue circled her clit and she buried her fingers in his hair. Her grip was firm. There was no soft, delicate stroking of his hair. Sliding two fingers into her, he started to pump while he nipped and sucked at her clit. _Musky_. 

The first time he went down on Veronica was mind blowing. She tasted so good. There was nothing he could compare it to. No frame of reference for the taste of Veronica. Watching her pupils dilate and her azure eyes darken when she orgasmed and cried out his name was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Each time he slept with her was better than the time before. He couldn’t get enough of her and then he had to go and get drunk and fuck Madison. “What do you want me to do?”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words out loud until Cinnamon murmured, “fuck me.” The words barely registered. In his head he heard the response from when he asked Veronica that question in his suite at the Grand, _make it not true…this is something I’m never getting past_.

Logan rolled on a condom and slammed into Cinnamon. He unlocked the memory. It was the end of summer. They’d spent the entire day on the beach swimming, trying to seek relief from the heatwave rolling through Neptune. A secluded spot, far away from the rest of the world and Veronica spread out on the red beach blanket.

He moved deeper and harder. His body responding not to the woman he was with, but the woman in his memory. _Fuck you, Veronica_.


	3. 240 DAYS

**240 DAYS**

Welcome to Neptune. _Otherwise known as my own personal hell_. Logan wanted to get out and spray paint it on the sign. He also wanted to reduce the population by one. The only one he wanted to see in this godforsaken, fucked-up place. If he had any sense he’d reduce it by two and put himself back on a plane to anywhere not here. Instead he was pulling his used, _read shitbox_ , Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot at Hearst. He needed to call Sean; number three on the speed dial. “It’s Logan I’m back in town.”

“You want a teener?” That’s what he liked about Sean, right down to business, no fuckin’ pleasantries needed. Logan thought about it; _a teener, as in teenager, as in a sweet sixteenth of an ounce._

“Make it an eight ball.”

“Same place?”

“Yeah.” He hung up, tossed the phone on the passenger seat and got out of the jeep. Dick left him a voice mail two days ago. _Dude you need to come back to Neptune_. There was no urgency in the message; just a matter-of-fact statement. Logan would’ve blown it off and stayed in Jamaica except for Cinnamon Girl. She’d found him cliff jumping the following morning and was glued to his side like a bitch in heat for the rest of the day. In a crowning moment of jackassery, he’d thrown a stick down the beach and told her to fetch. It was enough to make her go away, but the trip was done for him.

Dick was waiting for him in the quad. “Dude, you look like…” He shrugged.

“Use your words, Dick, sound it out.”

“Man, she’s not even here and Ronnie’s still fucking with your head.”

“Don’t,” he snapped. Dick was breaking the strict rule Logan imposed at the start of the summer before they left for South America- no mention of _her_ , ever, but fighting with him wasn’t going to help achieve his goal for this little meet and greet. “Listen, can you hook me up?”

He started shaking his head, “Logan, you gotta stop…”

A part of him acknowledged that when Dick Casablancas was the voice of reason it meant you were truly fucked, but that was the part of his brain he was trying to silence. “No? Okay then, nice chat.” He turned on his heel and started to leave.

“Wait.” Logan paused, but he didn’t turn around. “What do you want?”

 _Want? More like need_. “Oxy.” A little blow for the high, oxy for the comedown, and weed to level him out; the alcohol and sex were just a given.

“Come by the suite later.”

Logan nodded and walked away. He could’ve gotten it all from Sean, but it was better to spread the love. This way no one knew exactly _what_ he was doing or _who_ he was doing. Staring at the buildings and all the shiny happy people was enough to make him want to puke. _It’s just gonna have to wait until I can self-medicate_. He ambled his way across campus to a bench, _their bench_ , and sprawled on his back; arm bent over his face. _‘Wanna feel like a man, walk me to class?’ ‘Carry your books?’_

He’d bastardized the bench on purpose, turning it into his place to score. His memory was a curse. If he could schedule an appointment at Lacuna, Inc. and experience his own version of _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ , he would sign away every penny he owned. _Amnesia would work too_. Maybe he should go running with the bulls next and hope one of them trampled his head. “Hey white boy, no loitering.”

“I’m not loitering; I’m matriculating.” _Weevil; the ghost of past girlfriend’s lovers_.     

“Campus is for students only.”

“That’s what matriculating means. Sorry for using big words, _cholo_.” He pointed to himself, “me- student; you-pest.” Logan flicked his wrist, “now go away, shoo.”

“Sit up.”

“Fuck off.”

“You know Vee wouldn’t want you destroying yourself.”

He lowered his arm and turned his head to look at Weevil. “Gee, I think you’re wrong, _mom_. She would _love_ this. Vengeance is mine saith Veronica.” Turning away, he closed his eyes and put his forearm back over them trying to block out the sunshine. He could feel Weevil looming over him. “Are you still here? Isn’t there a toilet somewhere for you to clean?”

“Why don’t you just go see her?” He went twice. Sixteen hours round trip and he couldn’t make himself get out of the car.

“You’re the one who said when they run away like that; it’s kind of a hint they’re not interested.” It would be another hour before Sean got here and he didn’t want to spend it talking to Weevil. “Seriously if you stay here any longer people might start to get the wrong idea.”

“That I’m trying to save your pasty white ass?”

“No, that you _want_ my pasty white ass.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” The disappearance of Weevil’s shadow told him he was on the move.

“Too late; consider me flattered,” was his parting shot.

That was the most talking he’d done in … _three weeks, four?_ It was exhausting. The conversations in his head were more interesting. An hour to kill, he could use the time to compose today’s missive to _her_. _Dear soul-sucking leech…no too formal and not creative enough_. There were standards to uphold. _A pirate theme? Dear Bloodthirsty Wench_ …he was better at this when he was stoned. By the time Sean arrived with his coke, his internal letter devolved into an endless stream of _I-miss-you_ and _I-love-you’s_.

They didn’t talk, they weren’t friends. Logan peeled off four hundreds and handed three to Sean in exchange for his baggie. He gave him a salute, shoved the coke in his pocket and rolled the last hundred on the way to his jeep. Four rails now, four rails later; it would last him a week and he’d be back on his bench. He was tempted to do it in the car, but that would be a waste. _No skimping on the crushing_. The drive to his apartment was fast enough.

 _Hovel, sweet, hovel_. The two rooms, living room and kitchen, plus a bath were roughly the same size as his parent’s former bedroom. A pullout sleeper sofa was the only furniture in the entire place. Logan took an empty plate, put it in the microwave for a minute and then dumped a quarter of an ounce on the warm dish before putting the baggie with the rest in a container of rice. Using his black Amex he squashed the coke on the plate and then used a razor blade to cut it. _The finer the powder the more efficient the high_.

He savored each rail. The euphoria was instant. _What does cocaine make you feel like? It makes you feel like doing more cocaine_ ; _thank you, George Carlin_. This was the happiest he’d felt since leaving for Africa. Better than sex. _Fuck you, Veronica_.


	4. 241 DAYS

**241 DAYS**

There was no need to go to Dick’s last night. He’d found four beautiful, white little pills next to his bong in the bathroom. Of course seeing his bong made him want weed; it was like the adult version of _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_. The guy behind the counter at the liquor store downstairs ran his own side business, but it was schwag, all stems and seeds. Logan had the money for kush so it was the only thing he smoked, but in order to make his dealer come to him, he had to buy a zip. His dealer was a pain in the ass, always wanting to smoke with him on delivery. Logan was surprised his pot use hadn’t ended up in the tabloids. _He’s probably too wasted to know who I am._

To get _ziphead_ to leave early, he’d given him his evening lines of coke. Skipping them allowed him to comedown, take his oxy, and go to sleep. He didn’t even mind the shitty mattress on the pullout. What he did mind was sitting through his 19 th Century Poetry class completely straight. Sometime last semester in a haze of whisky and pot he’d declared himself an English major. He smirked. _Mr. Daniels would piss himself if he knew I was getting a B.A. in fucking English_.

Class started out shitty enough, but then the prof reminded them of the optional assignment for extra credit, ‘ _and, having already missed two of my classes, Mr. Echolls, I would highly recommend you disregard the word optional_ ,’ and it only got worse when he made Logan pick the poem he was going to analyze. _Thanks for calling me out in front of the entire class, douchebag_. He picked the shortest poem he knew, _Life in a Love_ , but it was also the one that made him think of _her_. _Get real man, what doesn’t make you think of her?_ He should just type Logan and Veronica on a sheet of paper and turn that in, _there’s your fucking analysis_. ‘ _While I am I, and you are you. So long as the world contains us both, me the loving and you the loth_.’ Loth: reluctant, unwilling, disinclined. _That’s how I should start my next letter; Dear Loth_.

He opened the bottle of Macallan; 25 year, single malt, nine hundred dollars a bottle. _The scotch for special occasions like a…Tuesday...Wednesday?_  This is what he should’ve done _before_ class, not after. Cranking up the radio, he reclined his seat and lit a joint. _Open container- check, illegal substances- check and check_. He’d already been busted once right before Thanksgiving; possession of a Schedule I CDS. No charges were filed after he and Sheriff Van Lowe came to a little _understanding_ between friends.

It was easier last year. When she left for her internship, he was still okay. Granted she left without a goodbye, but it was just part of the, _it’s gonna take some time_. Dick thinking he was going to fall apart, bailed on spending time with his dad and the surf trip was back on. _I should’ve known things were gonna get worse when Dick could see the writing on the wall_.

Parker was easy; he lied. _It’s not about Veronica, it’s about me; I’m just fucked up. Please come to South America with me_. Logan chugged more scotch and fired up another joint. The entire trip was sun, surfing, and sex. Sleep with Parker, think about Veronica; _how fucked up is that?_ He thought about the first conversation. The one they’d have after being apart all summer. Logan was afraid he’d screw it up. _Like usual_. Everything with Veronica required so much _effort_. Everything except how he felt. That was just _there_ and it wouldn’t go away. _Lives ruined- working on it, baby_.

The plan was to give it time. Two weeks. He was going to wait two weeks to see if she would come to him first and, if not, he’d find her after one of her classes. _Whipped_. Mac, in complete disregard of _the plan_ , found _him_ after class and told him, ‘ _Veronica’s not coming back to Neptune. She’s gone Logan, she transferred to Stanford_.’

He wasn’t exactly okay then. The occasional pot use became more frequent and the oxy intake increased. He dropped a class he needed, _thanks Wallace._ He moved, started to avoid people and places, but those days were _bliss_ in comparison to the weeks that followed. On the anniversary of Lilly’s death when there were no calls, no text messages, that’s when he _knew_ it was all over and she was _never_ coming back to him. The rest of October was a slow descent into hell. _Who are you kidding? It was a headlong rush to oblivion_.

 _If you’re going to sit here being maudlin, Echolls, why not go all in?_ He slipped the CD into the player, skipped to track five, and put it on repeat. Logan was convinced that Eddie Vedder’s life was almost as fucked up as his, or maybe just as fucked, but different. Either way, Pearl Jam was the soundtrack to his life.

An ode to papa, Rearview Mirror; _guess it was the beatings made me wise, but I’m not about to give thanks, or apologize_. His personal anthem, Indifference; _I’ll keep takin’ punches until their will grows tired_. A song for Lilly, Light Years; _but how could you be taken away?_   His parents relationship, Better Man; _she lies and says she still loves him, can’t find a better man_. Last Exit for Mom. And Veronica, Veronica was Black; _and now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything. All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything_.

Christ, he needed Dick to finish class so they could go get his pills and maybe do a little surfing. He pulled out his pack of Parliaments. Twenty cigarettes with twenty little bumps of coke packed into the recessed filters. Logan did two and then smoked one of the cigarettes. He did another bump and lit a second cigarette before Dick arrived. “Dude that reeks, put that shit out.” Taking another long pull, he tossed the butt out the window. “So how was Africa?” From his tone, Logan knew he was still pissy about not being invited. “Nail any tail?”

“Classy, Dick, real classy.” _Who are you to judge, mister throw a stick for a girl and yell fetch?_ “I went white water rafting on the Zambezi.” He knew better than to mention the jumping from the bridge.

“Righteous. Those are like grade five rapids.”

Nineteen rapids with names like Oblivion, Stairway to Heaven, and Gnashing Jaws of Death, were mostly fours and fives, Commercial Suicide was a six. His original tour company walked this rapid, too many hidden dangers. _Living is not for the weak_. It took him some time and some cash to find a guide willing to take him through it, but he was nothing if not determined. “How many pills did you get?”

“Ten.” When they left on their surf trip, Logan brought sixty pills with him. They were gone in four weeks and Dick lost his shit. To mollify him, Logan lied and said he was sharing them with Parker. At the start of the school year, Dick caught him buying thirty more pills on the beach and didn’t talk to him for two weeks. _A total win-win_. Asking him to get this round was a mistake. _Mother hen is going to try limiting my use. Good thinking as usual Dick. Can we say new supplier?_ “Still going surfing?”

“No Dick, I just brought my board for shits and giggles.” As they got closer to the Grand, the dread started pulling him down from his high. _We don’t even have one place filled with only happy memories_. Every place was a twisted kaleidoscope of good and bad, agony and ecstasy, except maybe The Camelot. The irony wasn’t lost on him; their first real kiss at the place where most marriages in Neptune went to die. Not trusting the valet to be above stealing his booze or his drugs, Logan parked on the street. He made it as far as the lobby and knew there wasn’t enough coke in the world to make entering the suite a possibility. “I’ll wait down here.”

He was going to argue. Logan could see the, _you’ve got to get over her_ , expression on his face. Telling him he was never getting over her would only start a fight and he really wanted to go surfing. Reprieve came in the form of a soft, “hey Logan.” _Tina_. He inclined his head in her direction and gave Dick a look he’d understand; _I’m going to try and get laid now_. He knew the message was received by the shit-eating grin and knowing nod he got in response.

“Hey, Tina.” Logan turned away from Dick and crossed to the front desk. “You know you’re the only thing I miss about staying here.”

She gave him a wide smile. “You could always come back.”

“For you, I’d consider it.” He liked Tina. Their teasing, flirting routine was fun. A nice girl, warm and friendly and outgoing; the kind of girl you dated. _Leave her alone, Echolls, she’s a blonde, and you know her name_. “So what time do they free you from your indentured servitude?”

An appraising look crossed her face. “Why? Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I could be persuaded.” _One more blonde couldn’t hurt_.

Tina shook her head. “Aren’t you supposed to persuade me?”

“Oh is that how this works? I’m a little rusty.” _It’s totally going to ruin my song reference theme_ , he glanced around the lobby, _or maybe not_. A hotel in California; _I can call her colitas_. “How much persuading do I need to do?”

“This much.” She brought up her hands, palms facing inward, and held them a foot apart.

Logan placed his hands against hers and slowly started to push them closed. At the halfway point, he said, “Dinner?” He closed the gap a little further and added, “Dessert?” Only an inch of space separated her palms. “A walk on the beach?” One more push and her palms were touching. He enfolded both her hands in his, lowered his chin and raised his eyes. “Maybe a goodnight kiss?”

“Rusty? I’d hate to see you at the top of your game.”

“No games.” Logan didn’t want to contemplate why he was trying so hard, but his relentless memory cued it up for him. They were on their way to that farce of a bowling night. It was a bullshit event manufactured by Piz to spend time with her. She was playing Nancy Drew, asking about Rory Finch and Tina was helping, ‘ _any friend of Logan’s_.’ A possessive arm slipped through his, as she corrected, ‘ _girlfriend of Logan’s_.’

“Pick me up at six.” For a split second he felt guilty, _I’m trying to make her jealous and she’s not even here,_ but he pushed away the thought. He was going to try. Everyone thought it was time for him to get his shit together, move on, and he was going to do it with Tina. _Fuck you, Veronica._


	5. 258 DAYS

**258 DAYS**

Sixteen days that’s how long it took Tina to leave him. That first date was fine; they did exactly what he promised, dinner, dessert, walk, and one goodnight kiss. She was funny and entertaining, but she wasn’t _her_. There was no snark, no sarcasm. She didn’t get any of his references. He asked her out again for the following night anyway. _Dumb fuck_. Four dates in eight days and he was completely sober for all of them. No booze, no coke, no pills because a chemically altered Logan was not a _trying_ Logan.

Date four they tried to have sex. If they were counting orgasms it was _very_ good for her (three) and not good for him at all (zero). He got her off with his hands and his mouth, but when it came time for the actual sex part, he bailed. When she tried to give him head, he refused. He didn’t want to think about _her_ while he was with Tina and the amount of mental gymnastics it took to achieve that goal was taxing. Straight home, three lines of coke (one for each of her orgasms) and he jerked off in the shower.

Logan shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position without straying from his side. _Not ready for that yet_. He balanced an ashtray on his stomach and lit a joint. There was a time when he was capable of fucking without thinking about the tiny blonde one. He could name all the girls…okay he could _recall_ all the girls he slept with, but he was having a hard time coming up with anyone since _her_ where _she_ wasn’t at least a passing thought.  _I am truly fucked._

Dates five and six both ended with sex. He did some blow in the bathroom first and he didn’t think too hard about anything. Unlike some poor bastards, coke actually _increased_ his stamina and they did it twice on date six. His only mistake was attempting to fuck her doggie-style the second time. He knew Tina wasn’t _her_ , but with the pale skin and blonde hair, he started to call her Veronica when he came. The _ver_ fell from his lips and he covered the slip by groaning, but that one syllable made Tina tense up and he knew he was busted. She didn’t say anything about it and when he called her the next day, she even agreed to date seven. It was what happened _between_ dates six and seven that made her end it. _Logan Echolls fuck-up_ ; _they’re going to write that on my tombstone_.

He popped another oxy, swallowed it down with the last of the scotch and let the bottle thump to the floor. It was a little louder than he anticipated. _Fucking hardwood floors_. He turned his head and waited, but there was no movement. _Still safe_.  His entire body ached.

Years of self-diagnosing made it easy to catalogue his injuries. Fractured ribs, two of them, possibly three, but they weren’t bad enough to require a compression bandage. Both eyes were black, tender to the touch, and one of them was swollen shut, but nothing in there was broken. His lip was split. It needed stitches, but he made due with butterfly bandages and a small piece of duct tape. _Gonna hurt like a bitch when I take that off_. Reflexively, his tongue moved over the tape; definitely going to leave a scar. A boxer fracture of his fourth metacarpal, but it was mild. After icing it, he’d taped his ring finger to his middle finger to limit mobilization. _Anatomy lessons and emergency first aid; who said his dad didn’t teach him anything useful?_

He’d cleaned and doctored everything before he went to get Tina for date seven, but it wasn’t like he could hide it. _I should’ve just canceled. And then what Echolls- avoid her for weeks until you healed?_ Her first reaction was alarm and concern and his first reaction was to lie. He started to make up some bullshit story about being mugged and then said fuck it. With as few details as possible, he told her his friend (dealer) mentioned (was asked about) places to box (underground fight clubs) and he went a few rounds (five fights) for fun (because he’s fucked up).

‘ _You did this to yourself by choice?_ ’ The disapproving and horrified expression wasn’t as good as _hers_ , but it was close enough that he almost asked if _she_ gave lessons in the art of being appalled by Logan Echolls. He’d shrugged and said, _you should see the other guy(s)_ and _hey, don’t you even wanna know if I won_ (the first four, but during the fifth his hand popped and he had to tap out). Needless to say, Tina was not amused.

He lit another joint... _a spliff, actually_ …and took a deep drag; holding it in his lungs made his ribs hurt, but… _whatever_. He’d started to apologize to Tina and realized that too would be a lie. As soon as he healed, he knew he was going to do it again; was going to go back to the club and fight some more. Instead of an apology, he pulled a page from _her_ playbook and said this is who I am, take it or leave it. Tina chose to leave it. _Smart girl_. But that was last night.

Before leaving the fight club, the… _card girl_ … _ring girl_ …tried to take him home to play doctor. _To the victor go the spoils_. He’d turned her down, but he hadn’t stopped her from putting her phone number in his cell. After Tina made her choice, he’d used the number and she invited him over. Her apartment was back in Los Angeles; he made the two hour drive in ninety minutes, speeding the entire way, but it still took him two hours because he stopped to pick up another 8ball from Sean.

When she opened the door, she was still wearing the low-rider red boyshorts and skimpy bikini top from the fight. Her navel was pierced and she was wearing a thin, silver belly chain that wrapped around her flat stomach. _It was hot_. Logan was used to girls trying to fuck him for his money or his dad’s fame, but she got off on the injuries. She was a little… _okay, very_ …kinky and she laughed when he said, _shouldn’t your apartment number be seven fourteen?_ Another laugh and she said, _just call me Super Freak_ , and he responded, _was planning on it_. She wasn’t going to exist in his world past the night, but… _hey_ , _at least she got my references_.

Super Freak let him cut rails on her stomach and snort them off her skin. Then he returned the favor; two lines for him and four for her, _an appetizer_. They had sex four times with coke breaks in between. In deference to his ribs, the first time was reverse cowgirl and she did most of the work. There were no complaints from her because he’d just spent an hour going down on her. When he’d finished, she told him, ‘ _that was your entrance exam, you passed with flying colors_.’

Logan was tired of smoking her crappy weed. He sat up, located his pants and pulled out his Altoids tin; six beautifully rolled joints of prime dank. He lit one and leaned back on the pillows. The second time was regular missionary during which she confessed she preferred anal, _without lube,_ and his eyes rolled into the back of his skull. The third and fourth times he happily obliged her preference. _She was a screamer_.

“Have you been holding out on the good stuff?”

She looked _wrecked_. Her makeup from the night before was smeared across her face and her short black hair was sticking up in spikes. Droopy eyelids almost concealed eyes that still looked glazed. “No, I believe I gave that to you last night.”

Super Freak pouted, “don’t bogart.” She wiggled her fingers at him, “gimme.” Logan took another deep pull, held it and passed her the joint. _Christ, it’s like I’m in a scene from Drugstore Cowboy, but with more sex_. She sucked the end of the joint and he knew it was wet now; he hated that. “That’s nice,” she started to pass it back and he pushed it away.

“All yours.” He got out of bed to search for his boxers.

“Are you leaving?” He stopped in the middle of getting dressed and just stared at her… _really?_ “Four rounds and you’re tapping out again? At least during the fight you _tried_ to go five.”

Logan hesitated with his shirt in his hands. He felt hollowed out. It was as if someone lopped off his head and gutted his insides with a spoon. His mind immediately flashed to the creepy _present_ the le trancheur left for Aaron before stabbing him. _That’s what I am a Logan-o’-lantern_. He didn’t even have it in him to curse Veronica.


	6. 259 DAYS

**259 DAYS**

Four lines for the road. It wasn’t the same quality as the blow he got from Sean, but he thought it would be enough for the drive back from L.A. Just in case, Logan kept his pack of Parliaments with its ten remaining bumps on his lap. He’d stood there in her apartment holding his shirt like a jackass while his desire for self-destruction did battle with the remaining shreds of his self-respect. It wasn’t a fair fight.  

She’d curled her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tugged him closer. “Come back to bed baby.”

Logan said the only thing that came to mind, “we’re outta coke.”

“I can fix that.” She used the phone to call her dealer and he dropped his shirt. _Self-destruction one, self-respect, zero._

Her dealer was a blonde and she looked like Lieutenant Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica. Like his dealer, she wanted to sample the product with them. _Unlike_ his dealer, that wasn’t the only thing she wanted to sample. Super Freak made the necessary introductions, “this boy has a _very_ talented tongue.” Logan’s mouth parted at the amount of tongue then exchanged between the two women. _I’m glad I don’t greet my dealer like that_ , he smirked, _then again  if my dealer looked like her I probably would_. “And you can call her Tutti Frutti.”

It took a minute for him to process the reference because the blood flow to his brain was severely restricted. The original, uncensored lyrics floated through his head; _tutti frutti, good booty. If it don’t fit, don’t force it. You can grease it, make it easy_ and that was enough for Drugstore Cowboy to quickly turn into the unrated version of Wild Things. _Matt Dillon; my new hero_.

Pulling his mind from the x-rated scenes before the long drive became _uncomfortable_ , Logan lit a cigarette. Traffic was moving at a slow crawl and his high started to dissipate around San Clemente. He drove with his knees and did two fast bumps. Another two bumps when he reached Encinatas and his final four in the parking lot at Hearst. He was late for his Humanities in Western Culture class so there was no time to go home to shower first.

With a face out of central casting for Raging Bull and reeking of both sex and pot, most people gave him a wide berth as he cut his way across campus; however, there were a few guys who shouted comments like, “ _can I get her number_ ,” and, “ _must have been some party_ ,” and “ _who won?_ ” Some idiot even tried to high-five him.

Timing it just right, he slipped into the room while the professor’s back was to the class. When she turned around, Professor Brach was visibly startled by Logan’s appearance, but she didn’t say anything about it or his late arrival. Slouching in his seat, he started to copy the notes she’d written across the three large white boards at the front of the room.

Boring Brach talked as much as she wrote, but the coke kept him alert for the first fifty minutes. When he started to feel restless and edgy, he dry swallowed his last oxy. He’d done more coke in the past twenty four hours than he usually did in a week and he was afraid the one oxy wouldn’t be enough. Already his thoughts felt muddled and his brain cloudy.

Sean told him if he actually _mixed_ the coke with heroin there would be no comedown at all, but those scraps of self-respect were resistant to the idea. He knew they were both opiates; oxy and heroin, but… _smack_? He wasn’t sure he wanted to go there yet. _That’s one for self-respect and the score is now tied_. The reluctance didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like waiting an hour to take his opiate after his stimulant made it different… _better_ …than speedballing and heroin _was_ cheaper.  _Score tied my ass, self-respect was losing_.

This in-between state where he desperately wanted to go to sleep, but was still too wired to be capable of it, could sometimes feel _mellow_ … _floaty_ and sometimes, like now it made him… _sad_. Tears stung his split lip. _Fuck_. Logan wiped at his face and eyed the door. If he left class now he could call Sean and restock his supplies. Forgetting his swollen eye, he dropped his head on the desk. The pain was immediate and intense cutting its way through the haze in his mind. He kept his face planted on the desk relishing the pain. At least he was feeling something other than lost.

His life was like Shark Field. Someone, the gods, the universe, the devil himself studied the blueprints of his life, decided what explosives to use… _childhood_ _abuse, murdered girlfriend, parental suicide_ … and where to plant those charges for maximum effect. They set the blasting cap with the primer charge, ran the fuse and Veronica was the match; complete life implosion of one Logan Echolls. He smirked. _With shitty metaphors like that I’m never going to pass Creative Writing 101._

 _Veronica_. He wanted to blame this all on _her_ ; make it _her_ fault. _If it was the other way around, she would blame me_ ; _Logan_ _: stealer of candy from babies, puppy kicker, cheater, rapist, murderer_. What did she call him? _Poor little rich boy with a death wish_. She had no fucking clue.

There were dark tunnels in his brain. Normally they were barricaded, _sealed_ , with reinforced steel, impenetrable. He kept those pathways blocked with the tools at hand; sarcasm, barbed comments, casual cruelty, but it took _effort_ to always seem that _unaffected_ by it all. When he was wasted, there was a sweet oblivion, a _freedom_ from that mental exertion, but in this netherworld, not fucked up enough and not sober, he couldn’t maintain the control. It was a physical thing, this downward spiral of thought; he could feel his mind dragging him under.

 _Was he ever happy?_ The memory came unbidden; they were together in the backseat of the X-terra, it was past her curfew and he was begging for five more minutes… _what I’m trying to say is I’m in love with you_. He used to say it to Lilly all the time and he believed it when he said it, but he didn’t _know_. Until that summer with Veronica he thought love was letting someone treat you like shit and being _grateful_ for the attention.

His parents were such stellar examples. A mother living her life in the bottom of bottle and watching as her husband got off on the psychological torture he liked to call _parenting_. Dinner taken away and denied food for an entire day because he didn’t want to eat his spinach, _I’m teaching you to be appreciative for what you have, son_ (four).  Being locked in the closet to get over his fear of the dark, _you need to face your fears, son_ (also four). No presents for Christmas one year because he was a bad child, _maybe you’ll learn to listen and show some respect, son_ (five).He grew to hate that word, _son_. It was trotted out for every one of Dad’s little _life lessons_. _Sadistic fuck_.

Right after that Christmas Aaron started using his hands; a smack on the mouth, a cuff on the back of the head, a twist of the arm. It wasn’t so bad at first. In some ways it was better than the mind fuck because the cut would heal, the bruise would fade and he’d get _apologies_. For a day, maybe two afterwards his father would be _nice_ to him. _I’m sorry I had to do that son, but that’s what happens when you don’t listen_. He would buy him a new toy or take him for ice cream. It became routine.

Sometimes he’d do something on purpose to make Aaron flip. A broken vase while running through the house warranted repeated whacks on his bare legs and feet with a wooden spoon. There were welts on his skin for weeks. Aaron saw the marks and took him go-cart racing. He bought him his own luxury ride-on electric car, a red Ferrari, and even hired a construction crew to build a track in the yard. Logan couldn’t wait to get home from school every day to zoom around that track for _hours_. But it all changed when he was seven.

Logan covered his head with his hands trying to make it stop. It was all too fucking _clear,_ from the color of the towels right down to the pattern on the imported Italian tile floor. He could _see_ himself playing in the bath. His mother had bought him a fleet of battleships and WW2 planes and he wanted to stage an epic battle. He knew he wasn’t supposed to use their bathroom, but they had the big tub and he needed an _ocean_. The planes were dive bombing the boats and making them explode. Water was everywhere; he’d soaked the bathmat, the _guest towels,_ and there was a huge puddle of water on the floor.

When Aaron found him in the tub, the rage on his face scared Logan. He’d never seen him that _angry_ before. Grabbing Logan by the hair, he shoved his head underwater holding him there until his lungs started to burn. _I’m going to die_. The thought exploded through his brain and he wasn’t sure if it was part of the memory, his current reality or both. The look on Aaron’s face when he finally yanked him from the tub was _smug_. It was like Logan’s terror _gratified_ him.

Logan groaned. _Think about something else_. He needed to call Sean. There was no more coke, he’d finished the oxy and he left the last of his weed with Super Freak. _Not good_. There was scotch in the jeep, but it was going to take more than alcohol to make his head quiet. _I’m not going to make it_. “Mr. Echolls.” Her tone told him this wasn’t the first time she’d tried calling him. Professor Brach put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

 _Do I fucking look okay to you?_ He put his palms on the desk and pushed himself upright. The pity in her eyes turned his stomach; he hated fucking pity. _No more Humanities for me_. He didn’t even bother to take his notebook. Shoving back the chair, he got up and walked out.

He called Sean before the door finished closing. There was no time to fuck around trying to find a new source for his oxy; he ordered two 8balls, sixty pills and a fourth of weed. The desperation in his voice was obvious enough that Sean promised to be there within the hour… _an hour_ …Logan didn’t think he could hold on that long. Thinking about _her_ was bad enough, but _this_ was a fucking nightmare. Part of him was swearing he would never put so much as an _aspirin_ in his system if his head would just shut the fuck up while at the same time he was longing for the numbing effect of as many drugs as he could possibly get. _Maybe I should call him back and ask him to bring the heroin too_. Logan’s thumb hovered over his phone.

“Dude what the fuck happened to you?” Dick was waiting for him _on. the. bench_. He needed to make him go away before Sean got here.

“Someone asked me a stupid question.”

It took a minute for the words to find the target, but Dick’s demeanor changed as soon as they did.  “You can’t keep doing this; you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Newsflash, maybe that’s the _point_. Need me to explain it to you? I’ll draw pictures and use hand puppets if you want.”

“Are you hoping she’ll turn up for your funeral? Because she won’t. _Newsflash_ , Ronnie doesn’t give a shit.”

The truth of those words hurt worse than his injuries, worse than the beatings. Logan threw himself on the bench next to Dick, “tell me something I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should go to one of those meetings…that AA shit?”

“You know that means alcoholics anonymous and not available ass right?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. Logan looked at the time on his phone. _I’ll go to a meeting if you’ll go away_. “You’re like a brother to me,” his voice cracked on the word _brother_ , “I need you to get help. _I’ll_ help you; just tell me what I can do.”

“Can you make my father not be an abusive fuck? Stop my mother from diving off a bridge? Make Lilly not be dead? Bring Veron…” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Everybody’s life is fucked, man, but this…” Dick pointed at Logan’s face, “is not gonna do any of those things either. You need to get your shit together.”

“Life advice from the great Dick Casblancas. When did you find the time in your busy schedule of chasing tail and keggers to get so _wise_?”

“Say what you want, but at this point, which one of us has a better chance at actually _having_ a life?”


	7. 265 DAYS

**265 DAYS**

“You got any product?” She was small, _scrawny_. A dirty red hoodie was pulled up tight over her head, but stringy blonde bangs escaped the fleece. Her very pale skin made the smudges under her eyes darker. Logan shook his head. Blue eyes flicked to the Shelby GT-500 he was leaning against and her tongue darted across her bottom lip. “Cash then? I could blow you.”

 _Holy shit_. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“You did her.” Scrawny turned her head and Logan followed her gaze to… _Cake_ …the flag girl. _No trophy, no flowers, no flashbulbs, no wine; he’s haunted by something he cannot define_. Logan shook his head again to clear his thoughts and she mistook the gesture for denial. “I saw you.”

 _Well, that’s just disturbing_. This entire night started bad and rapidly turned to shit. He didn’t think it could get worse until now; propositioned at three a.m. by a junkie…a _voyeuristic_ junkie… _child_. “What are you like ten?”

“I’m _a_ ten; lemme show you.” Her fingers reached for his zipper and he jerked away, scrambling out from between her and his car. “It’ll be good; I promise.”

 _Fuck_. Did he really look that bad? Bad enough for her to think first, that he was holding and second, that he would let her… _Fuck_. She turned away. There was no shape to her; all curves wasted away … _emaciated_. “Wait.” Resting all her weight on one foot, she kicked the ground with her toes and she looked even more like a child. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“You don’t need to buy me dinner first.”

“I’m not asking you on a _date_ ; I’m hungry.” Logan circled around the back end of the car to the driver’s side door.  He waited for a beat, “fine. Come, don’t come, don’t care.”

Climbing into the car, he hid his fourth of weed in the glove box, shoved the two unused condoms in his pocket and tossed the used one out the window. _First class all the way Echolls_. He smirked; _this is what I get for modeling my life on a movie starring Vin fucking Diesel_. Street racing sounded like a _solution_. He could get an adrenaline fix without having to travel…heaven forbid he miss _French, comment dit-on_ fucked _en français, s’il vous plait?_ Plus he couldn’t drive if he was geeked or wasted so he could _limit_ his drug intake.

She finally slid into the passenger seat and Logan started the car. The only place he knew would be open was the Studio Diner in Kearny Mesa. He headed south on Kearny Villa Road. It ran parallel to the 15 and was one of the most famous… _popular_ …drag-racing sites in San Diego. _Not tonight_. “You have a name?”

Turning her head so he wouldn’t miss her eye roll she said, “call me whatever you want.”

“Okay…Jane.”

“That’s original.”

 _I thought so_. He sang a few bars of Jane Says… _I’m gonna kick tomorrow_. “No? Not heroin? What about meth? I’d call you semi-charmed, but that’s _my_ song.” _How do I get back there, to the place where I fell asleep inside you_. “Nothing? Okay Jane it is.”

Jane continued to hug the door and ignore him. The car was new; the driver was the same jackass. He bought the V-8 because you could hit 60 in 4.6 seconds and you could hear that distinctive supercharger _whine._ The same night he got the car, and every night since, he was on the street looking for a race. He’d started at Qualcomm Stadium where they had legal drag racing… _rules_ …made friends with some drivers and was introduced to the illegal world of 2-way radios, police scanners and GPS.

It was a rush. Driving at speeds over a hundred miles an hour on city streets; weaving through traffic, blowing lights, avoiding the police and _flying_. At the end of a race, win or lose, he’d snort a few rails and he’d feel _free_. Tonight started out the same, then that Cake song began playing in his head; _but he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns and thinking of someone for whom he still burns_ , and his thoughts turned to… _Veronica_. He lost control of the car and skidded out. If the road wasn’t deserted, if the crowd was bigger, if any one of a thousand variables had been different, he wouldn’t be pulling into the parking lot of the Studio Diner with Jane.

The diner, wrapped in chrome, was on the lot of a working movie and television studio. Aaron filmed some crappy TV movie here back when Logan was _five_ … _six_ …and Aaron brought him here for cheeseburgers and milkshakes. _It was after he broke my arm by shoving me down the stairs_. He’d left his matchbox cars on the landing and Aaron almost fell. There was a nice waitress who signed his cast and gave him a free brownie with whipped cream.

It was almost empty and they took a booth close to the door. Jane kept one eye on it as if she was waiting for Logan to go _psycho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est_. _I would’ve done that in the car sweetheart without witnesses_. “Order whatever you want.”

She ordered the T-bone steak with eggs plus cheese blintzes and pancakes. Then she asked for orange juice, coffee, and a strawberry milkshake. Logan hid his smile behind his menu and duplicated her order. _Fuck it_. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. “So mister charmed life…”

“ _Semi_. Mister _Semi_ -charmed life.” That elicited a ghost of a smile. In the bright lights of the diner he could see she was older than ten… _obviously_ …but still _young_. Sixteen, maybe seventeen; she was just petite like… “How old are you really?”

“I’m legal.” Her pout belied _that_ claim.

“And I’m Lord Licorice, the evil villain of Candy Land.” Another small smile; wider than the first and it lasted a little longer. “I’m trying to keep my references age appropriate for the minors in the booth.”

“What happened to your face?”

“Aren’t you paying attention? I was trying to stop the kids from reaching candy castle.” The swelling of his left eye had gone down enough for him to open it and he’d removed the duct tape from his lip, but the mottled bruises still made him look _mad, bad, and dangerous to know_. He told flag girl they were from a previous street racing accident right before he dubbed her _cake_ and fucked her in his car. “We know _I_ live in licorice castle, but where are you from?”

“Oz.” Logan grinned. _She was sassy too_. “I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

By the time she returned from the restroom the food had arrived. She hugged her plate and shoveled food in her face like she’d just spent time in prison and was afraid some bigger con was going to steal her chow. He figured conversation was off-the-table in place of food, _pun? intended_ , and dug into his pancakes. Once he started eating, he realized how hungry he was and matched Jane almost mouthful-for-mouthful.

When they were done eating and by done he meant _every last bite of food_ , he paid the check. The sky was starting to get lighter, which meant his chances for getting some sleep before class grew dimmer.

Jane gave him a genuine smile. “Thanks for…”

“There’s a motel down the road.”

Her smile faded and her eyes filled with disappointment _in him_. _Join the club sweetheart_. “I thought we weren’t…” Resignation made her shoulders slump as she shuffled toward the car.

“Not for _us_ , for _you_ ; to shower…sleep...real bed. Any of this sound familiar?”

Watery, stunned eyes stared at him and her mouth parted into a perfect little _oh_ of surprise. Logan got in the car before any teardrops could start; he would _not_ be dealing with that.

It was a short, _silent_ , drive down Ruffin and across Balboa. The motel wasn’t the nicest, but they would take cash and not ask questions. Forget _nicest_ , it was a dump. They didn’t use computers and they still had old brass keys on plastic tags. He contemplated taking her to the Holiday Inn, but considering his face and her attire, he didn’t think they would get past the front desk.

He paid for the room and she signed in as _Jane A. Diction_ , tilting the registry so he could see it. Logan smiled, shook his head and walked her to the room. It was a long rectangular building; two floors, rooms on both and all of them overlooked the rutted parking lot. When they got to her door, he unlocked it and handed her the key. She tilted her head to meet his eyes and asked, “why?”

Why was he doing this? Why did he care? Logan had no clue, but he was and he did. He wanted to give her money, but he was sure she’d use it to cop her drug of choice. _I would_. “Maybe I have a soft spot for tiny blondes.” She nodded like that made perfect sense to her. _At least one of us understands_. Pulling out his wallet, he removed a Visa and held it out for her. “Same time tomorrow I’m going to call to cancel it, until then,” he shrugged, “knock yourself out. There’s a Walmart down the road.” He pointed in that general direction.

“Emily,” her voice was whisper soft. “My name…it’s Emily.”

“Take care Emily.” He started backing up, “some advice? Click your heels three times and go home.”


	8. 266 DAYS

**266 DAYS**

The first time he smoked pot was with Lilly. It was the day after Jake bought her a new car. She _hated_ that car; a gray Mercedes M-Class SUV. _Do I look like a soccer mom? I need a car that’s as hot as I am_. She _wanted_ an MG convertible in metallic green; _to match my eyes lover_. If he’d had the money, he would’ve bought her one on the spot just because of the way she was looking at him in that moment. _God she was…sexy_. She was taking Driver’s Ed, only had a learner’s permit, and Jake bought her a _Mercedes_. Logan shook his head. _We rich with our inherited wealth_ …maybe _she_ had a point.

He rubbed the glass pipe. It was a spoon pipe. Not green like Lilly’s eyes, but blue like _hers_ ; it even _shimmered_ in the light like her eyes did when she was excited. _We’re here and now, will we ever be again…’cause I have found all that shimmers in this world is sure to fade away…I never really know a killer from a savior ‘til I break at the bend_. Logan concentrated on packing the bowl. Plugging the carb hole with his thumb, he blew air through it. _Never underestimate the value of good airflow_. He broke two pieces off the nug and put the _nugletts_ side by side in the bottom of the bowl. Continuing to break the nug into small pieces he placed them in one at a time and then tamped down the entire thing with his thumb.

They drove to Santa Monica. She wasn’t supposed to drive without a licensed driver and she certainly shouldn’t have been driving hours on the _freeways_ toward Los Angeles, but that was _Lilly_. They went to the pier. She put on a front of worldly sophistication, but still squealed like a little girl on the roller coaster and demanded to ride the carousel. They made out at the top of the Ferris wheel, copped weed from some dude at Venice beach and walked back to smoke it under the pier before having sex in the sand. _That was unpleasant_. Movies lied. It was not a romantic, _From Here to Eternity_ scene; sand got _everywhere_ and it was… _gritty_.

Logan put the pipe in his mouth and placed his thumb over the carb. Holding the lighter upward at a ninety degree angle, he struck it and tilted it counter-clockwise so the flame would move away from his fingers. A slow inhale, release the carb for a fat hit and hold the smoke in his lungs to get super faded.

The drive home was _vastly_ different from the drive there. Lilly was wasted and bitchy. It was _his_ fault she got sunburned, had sand in her snatch…her word, not his…and was too fucked up to drive. _All my fault_. She was also _extremely_ paranoid. Every car was an undercover cop, Jake was _definitely_ going to find out what they did and _Celeste_ was going to ground her until she was _thirty_. Logan vowed _no more pot for me_. He smirked. _Promises and piecrusts: both made to be broken_ … _like me_.

He didn’t do any coke after dropping Jane… _Emily_ …off at the motel. It was there, sitting on the counter and calling to him; _come and get me lovah_. It was… _accurate_ …for the coke to sound like Lilly. Doing blow and being with Lilly were the same experience; an _exhilarating_ high when things were good between them, a bad comedown when they were separated, and an _aching_ desire to do it all over again. Both were equally bad for him.

The pounding on the door penetrated his lethargy. _Walking underwater_ is how he felt, the air had _weight_ to it and his body was heavy. _That’s what I get for smoking grass all day_. Logan plucked the baggie of coke off the counter and shoved it between the sofa cushions on his way to the door.

 _Dick, of course_. “You weren’t in class today.”

“What, did she leave you some tracking devices, maybe some bugs?” It was supposed to be sarcastic and only came out sounding  _hopeful_. _Like she might be interested in what you’re doing; grow a set Echolls_. At Dick’s blank expression, he rolled his eyes. “ _Ronnie_.” Logan flinched at his use of the name.  _I haven’t called her that since_ …His mind shied away from that day. “Why are you here?”

“Your professor came looking for me; wanted to know where you were.”

It was taking him a long time to process that sentence. The race was _Saturday_ … _Sunday_? “Is it Monday?” Dick just stared at him. His only class on Monday was the three hours of Humanities hell, which meant it was _Boring Brach_ who came looking for him. He’d decided to drop that class, but apparently she didn’t get the memo. Dick pushed his way into the apartment. “By all means come right in; should I offer you a beverage?”

“This is a dump.”

 _No arguments there_. “Yes, but it’s _my_ dump.” He sat on the couch next to his coke and watched Dick through hooded eyes. He seemed at a loss, _flustered_ , and Logan found it funny. This was probably the shittiest home he’d ever been in and was out of his element. An analogy was there… _a billionaire in a homeless shelter_ … _a princess dining at a food bank_ …it wasn’t worth the energy and Logan gave up on it. “Why are you here?”

“You’re moving.”

He looked down at his body. “Nope, quite stationary…incapable of moving as a matter of fact.” For the first time he noticed Dick was holding a box of garbage bags. The black, drawstring industrial strength bags; _hefty, hefty, hefty, wimpy, wimpy, wimpy_. He chuckled. That weed was strong and he wanted to… _nap_ …and _eat_. His eyes moved to the refrigerator. There was nothing in there. _Note to self; stock up on groceries before getting the munchies_. “What are you doing?”

Dick was shoving all his clothes into a trash bag. “Dude, laundry it’s a thing.”

“Like you would know; have you ever even _seen_ a washing machine?”

Ignoring him, he tied off the first bag and started filling a new one. Three bags took care of all the clothes that were lying around the living room, slash, bedroom, slash, _entertainment_ room. Dick pulled open the closet and the first thing he took out was Logan’s leather bound journal. “Is this a _diary_?”

“Do I look like a twelve year old girl? It’s a journal.” The grin on his face said, _semantics_. No, Dick wouldn’t know that word, _his_ expression would mean, _same diff_. “It was for class.” _Lie_. His English professor did recommend keeping a daily journal, but it wasn’t exactly an assignment. The suggestion made Logan think of his snide, _I’d really have to consult my feelings journal to be sure_ , and he thought _fuck it_ , _why not?_ It was mostly… _sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, baby_ …and aborted letters to _her_.

Veronica… _Ronnie_. That was his name for her, a long time ago when they used to be friends. It was always with a teasing lilt usually right before he pulled her ponytail or tossed her in the pool or tickled her until she begged for mercy. Sometimes it was soft and comforting like when her mom would be _sick_ in the middle of the day and miss Veronica’s soccer game, _I’m sorry Ronnie_. Then it became a weapon. He’d say it with just enough edge to get under her skin. It was a reminder that she _used_ to mean something to him back before she betrayed her friends…betrayed _him_. With that one word, _Ronnie_ , he could slice right through her. When he asked her to help him find his mom, he called her Veronica. It was a concentrated effort to never hurt her again… _very successful Echolls_.

“Where are your keys?”

“You’re wrong you know; she would _totally_ come for my funeral.” It’s what she was waiting for… _I can’t stay with you…someone’s gonna get killed…I’m pretty sure there’s a part of you that’s having fun with all of this._ It was always there, her belief that he would self-destruct. That he would commit suicide or do something… _stupid_ …and get himself killed. She would never miss the chance to be so gloriously _right_. He could almost see her standing over his coffin, _gloating_ , with that _look_ of hers, the self-righteous and smug _I-told-you-so_.

“Where. Are. Your. Keys?”

Logan flicked his hand toward the kitchen. He could hear Dick opening and closing the cabinets and the drawers in search of his car keys. _Good thing I didn’t hide my coke in a drawer_. The telltale jangle of metal told him Dick was successful in his search. He silently watched his friend carry all his possessions packed in trash bags… _God, wasn’t that apropos_ …out of the apartment. “Are you doing my laundry?” He felt just as perplexed as he sounded.

“How wasted are you? I told you, you’re moving in with me.”

 _No, absolutely not_ , there was _no fucking way_ he was moving back to the Neptune Grand. Logan started shaking his head. Not only would he have to contend with the memories of _her_ , but he would also have to see Tina, _colitas_ , every damn day. “I like my shithole, it’s… _mine_ and I’m not gonna live at the Grand.”

“Dude you can’t even keep your car in this neighborhood.” That was true. His Range Rover was stolen his second night here. Its silver replacement was stolen a week later and the insurance company dropped him. He was reduced to his shitty rust bucket; a car he didn’t want to drive and no one else wanted to steal. He was keeping the Shelby in a private garage back in the 90909 zip code, but he still wasn’t going to live at the Grand.

 _That’s where I did coke for the first time, on the roof_.  It wasn’t a conscious choice. He’d bought a teener from Sean and he wanted to be alone; to be somewhere out in the open where no one would come looking for him. If he was going to pick a place for _symbolic effect_ …a place that brought him to that point…he had a plethora to choose from; the charred grounds of his former house, the swimming pool at the Kanes, the Coronado Bridge, his actual suite, but he found himself on the roof. It was the beginning of December, getting close to Christmas and he was leaving for Africa in four days. He thought about Beaver and he thought about jumping… _I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend…the angry boy a bit too insane icing over a secret pain…you know you don’t belong_ …but he chose to do the coke instead. “No. I’m not leaving.”

“You are.” Dick was an immutable force with an expression he’d never seen; _steely determination_. “I’m not at the Grand; I rented us a house. It’s small, but dude, it’s on the beach…surfing every morning before class, it’ll be sweet.” There was the old Dick, the familiar one, thinking about sand and surf and using the word dude. Logan felt himself relax. _It might not be too bad_.

 


	9. 270 DAYS

**270 DAYS**

_I miss the sound of your voice and I miss the rush of your skin and I miss the still of the silence as you breathe out and I breathe in_. None of it was working for him. The meaningless sex, the coke, pot, oxy, booze; none of it was keeping his mind from thinking about  _her_. The fucking  _sky_  was even pissing him off because it was the wrong shade of blue. He felt around the sand for his cigarettes and lit another one. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin and leave Logan behind here on this beach;  _their beach_.

Four days of living with Dick was four days too long. It was like Dick got his hands on a manual… _How to Keep Your Friend from Self-Destructing: A Step-by-Step Guide_ …and he was following every fucking word, every letter,  _verbatim_. After step one… _friends don't let friends live in shitholes_ …Logan was positive step two was… _never let them out of your sight_.

He'd gone to Hearst today just to escape the scrutiny. He went with a goal… _a purpose_ …to withdraw from Humanities, but apparently, he'd missed some bullshit deadline that prevented him from dropping the class without the consent of the professor and Boring Brach wouldn't give it. She just handed him his notebook and told him,  _no_ , and then in her uptight, bitchy voice said,  _oh and Mr. Echolls, don't miss my class again_. He'd waited until she was looking at him to throw his notebook in the trash; a nonverbal  _fuck you_. The satisfaction was short-lived. Crossing across the quad he saw  _Piz_.

He was on his cell and wearing that big, dopey grin Logan  _loathed_. He laughed at something the other person said and Logan was suddenly convinced he was talking to  _her_.  _Just because she left me, doesn't mean she left him_. The thoughts that followed were  _torture_. Did he drive up to Stanford to spend the weekends with her? Did he get to hear her laugh and see that sexy little half-smile that drove Logan crazy?  _Were they sleeping together?_ Logan couldn't escape campus fast enough.  _Fuck_. He banged his head against the sand.  _I miss the sound of your voice; loudest thing in my head and I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said_.

The first time he saw her on that soccer field when they were twelve she was wearing that little half-smile.  _Instant crush_. It was like she knew something the rest of the world didn't and he wanted to know it too; know her secrets, know  _her_. She was innocence and perfection, but she was also wickedly funny and smart. People underestimated her. They wrote her off as naïve and gullible, but there was an underlying strength to her; an independence, a  _fierceness_. Lilly saw it. When people questioned why they were friends, she would shrug;  _you just don't know Veronica like I do_. But Logan did.

Piz was never going to see that Veronica. Know the way her mind worked and all the secrets she kept. She would be the  _normal_  girlfriend for him and when the darker sides of her personality appeared, Piz would write them off as an aberration;  _Duncan 2.0_. Logan wasn't in denial; he knew some of those darker sides to her personality were his fault. He  _knew_  them because he helped  _create_  them. He ground out his cigarette in the sand and lit another one.

It wasn't just Yolanda or Keith accusing the Kanes or even the leaked crime scene video. It was all of it and none of it. He was just so  _angry_ ; all the time, every day. It  _hurt_ ; a physical, aching pain that was worse than anything Aaron ever did to him. It wasn't just that he lost Lilly, but that Duncan and Veronica were gone too. He was alone.

 _A defining moment: an event that determines all subsequent related occurrences_ , that was Lilly's funeral. Duncan didn't even speak to him; not one word. His best friend since kindergarten and it was like Logan wasn't even there. Then there was Veronica; pale and shaken with big sloppy tears running down her face. She stood there between her parents and stared right through him. He didn't know if she was angry at him for failing Lilly or for cheating with Yolanda. Maybe she blamed him like he blamed himself, but either way it didn't matter because his anger found a target.

He never hated her.  _She_  thought he did. How could she not when he was such a complete and total dick to her. It was easy to turn everyone against her.  _No one wants you here Ronnie_. That was it. Six words spoken loud enough over the lunch tables in the quad and all the 09ers knew she was persona non grata. He didn't have to do anything else and he didn't,  _at first_. Logan saw them flatten her tires and pour paint in her locker and put gum in her textbooks. He would see her escape to the bathroom in tears.  _Toughen up Ronnie_.

All of it made him sad, which just made him angrier. He didn't  _want_  to feel bad for her. He didn't  _want_  to remember his friend. The girl who buried her face in his shoulder during the scary parts of the horror movies they would watch after Lilly passed out and Duncan went to sleep. The girl who would steal spoonfuls of his ice cream when she thought he wasn't looking and then give him an innocent  _it wasn't me_  smile when half his bowl was gone. He  _wanted_  to hate her, but he couldn't and then came Shelly's party.

Logan groaned. He should've known their relationship was doomed. That he wouldn't get  _forever_  with Veronica Mars. There was no way she could forgive him for the events of that fucking party. She could compartmentalize all she wanted, but a part of her was always going to hate him.  _No more than I hate myself_. If he was honest with himself, she was better off with Piz or some other guy who didn't know all the ways to hurt her; someone who could love her better than he could. He finished the bottle of scotch and threw it in the ocean.

The salt lick. The  _fucking_  salt lick. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to make the image go away. There was a ready-made list of excuses he could use… _I was a messed up, hurting kid…I was wasted…I didn't know she was drugged_ …they may all be true, but they were still all  _bullshit_. He did it because he could. He wanted to hurt her like he was hurting, but  _never_  like that. If he knew what was going to happen he wouldn't have left her. Logan cradled his head in his hands.

 _Consequences_ ; it was a word he had to learn the hard way. He deserved this; the crushing… _relentless_ …misery. He deserved to be tortured with thoughts of her with Piz, with anyone. To be tortured with the thoughts that someone else would get to hold her and touch her and taste her.  _I miss the pull of your heart. I taste the sparks on your tongue. I see angels and devils and God, when you come_.


	10. 281 DAYS

**281 DAYS**

It was another bridge in another city with another river spread out beneath him. Four hundred and eighty-six feet separated him from the ground. This time there was no harness and no bungee cord to pull him back; he was going all the way to the bottom. Logan leaned over the railing to watch the water. Compared to the Zambezi with its choppy, restless rapids the Snake River seemed still… _tranquil_ …but that was a lie. He knew there was churning whitewater both upriver and down, but here it was slow and lazy… _deceptive_.

Friday morning, _yesterday_ , he woke with a girl in his bed and he couldn’t _remember_ how they got there. There was a full moon and he’d gone night surfing. Night surfing could be dangerous stone-cold sober, which he was not, and they suggested you never do it alone, which he was. After getting worked by a wave, he collapsed on the beach and was smoking a cigarette when the blonde found him. _Do I have a sign tattooed on my forehead? Likes to fuck blondes? Likes to get fucked over by blondes?_

Sex was complicated. Not the getting it part; he’d never had problems in that area. He knew he wasn’t exactly Brad Pitt, but he was… _easy on the eyes_ , that’s how his mother would phrase it,  and what he might lack in the looks department he made up for in… _personality_. Logan smirked. He was just the right amount of damaged bad boy that girls thought they could _fix_ him and still enough of a vulnerable romantic that they _wanted_ to. If those things alone didn’t seal the deal, he also had his father’s fame, his own notoriety and a shitload of money. _Then there’s bachelor number three and he’s got it all_. No, sex was complicated because he was _fucked_.

She told him her name… _Jessica_ … _Jennifer_ …and he promptly dismissed it from his brain as unimportant. He didn’t encourage her; didn’t ask her to join him or even offer up his name, but she stayed. Logan shook his head. _Story of my life; the ones I want to go- stay and the ones I want to stay- leave_. When her presence reached his threshold for annoyance… _five minutes, ten_ …he stood, but she stopped him by saying she had weed and did he want to smoke with her… _uh, yes_.

Logan leaned against the white concrete barricade protecting the pedestrian walkway from the bridge traffic and lit a cigarette. Most people thought Lilly was his first. Hell, even _Lilly_ believed his first time was with her. _Lie_. His first time was with an actress. He was thirteen and she was twenty. When Veronica asked him _have you ever been with a hooker?_   He told her no. It was _technically_ the truth; no money changed hands, but there was more than one way to pay a person. The barter system: an exchange of goods and services, he just didn’t know if he was the _goods_ or the _services_.

Aaron was filming… _Crimson Dawn_ … _Deadly Riders_ …and she was a lowly extra with dreams of being a star. _Papa_ was worried about him. There was no way the great Aaron Echolls; real man, action hero, could have a son who was gay… _cue the stereotypes_ ; there was too much _flitting_ and _grace_ , too many nights watching musicals with his mother and _liking them_ plus he could, insert shudder, _dance_. Cut to the end of the film: Logan got laid and Natalie got a starring role. _Sex…complicated_.

That first time was… _good_? She was a living, breathing wet dream with more experience. He didn’t last long… _in, out, repeat if necessary_ …and she gave him pointers about how to increase his endurance; a little squeeze below the tip to reduce blood flow, thinking disgusting thoughts, slowing it down, only going tip deep…for the _next_ time. He almost came on the spot when she said the word, _next_. _You mean this is going to happen again?_ It did and she also took the time to teach him the words cunnilingus and g-spot.

He swung his leg over the gray metal bars and straddled the railing; US 93 on one side of him and the deep chasm of Snake River canyon on the other. Logan stared at the drop. _When you take me, I’m not there…almost human, but I’ll never be the same...long way down, I don’t think I’ll make it on my own…long way down, I don’t want to live in here alone_.

The weed made him feel numb at first and then he was so hot he felt like he was on fire. He couldn’t get out of his wetsuit fast enough. The neoprene was burning his skin. When he was completely naked, he turned to… _Jessica…Jennifer_ … and she stripped down too. They had sex on his surfboard.

In the middle of it, she laughingly told him it wasn’t regular weed, it was _wet_ ; a joint dipped in liquid PCP. But the words weren’t coming from her mouth; they were coming from his surfboard. His fucking _surfboard_ was talking to him. No, not talking to _him_ , talking to the other Logan; the one fucking the blonde girl on the beach. _He_ was standing next to them, watching. It was the last thing he remembered before waking up to find her in his bed.

He was pissed. _No hallucinogens ever_. That was his rule. His brain was way too fucked up to attempt dust or acid. There was no telling what he would _see_ or _do_ during a bad trip. Hell even a good trip might send him to the psych ward if it unleashed even _half_ the monsters that resided in his brain. He couldn’t even _look_ at her he was so angry. After getting dressed, he stormed out of the house, got in his car and started driving. Eight hundred and twenty five miles later he was in Twin Falls, Idaho.

 _Where the fuck is he?_ The French called the compulsion to jump from high places, “ _l’appel du vide,_ " the call of the void. The fear of heights was not so much about the height itself, but the fear that you would be unable to resist the _desire_ to jump. Logan didn’t want to resist his desire to jump; he was _ready_ to jump. He lit another cigarette.

Sex was its own drug; he enjoyed it and he was good at it. Logan could have sex and it not _mean_ anything other than a good time. There didn’t need to be _feelings_ involved; you could just have sex to get off. He was completely able to disengage his emotions from the act of sex. _Thank you Natalie_.

Even with Lilly there was something … _a connection_ …missing. It was fun and adventurous and satisfying. It was _great_ sex, but they didn’t make love. He smirked. Pre-Veronica Logan would call him a pussy for even thinking that the phrase _make love_ existed outside the covers of a romance novel. He had sex with Lilly, but it wasn’t _real_. Sex with Veronica… _that_ was real. _Christ, who am I the Velveteen Rabbit?_  

Logan leaned forward and smacked his head against the railing. He had to stop thinking about her. _She’s gone and she’s not coming back_. If this guy didn’t show up soon he was liable to throw himself off the bridge without a parachute just to make his brain be quiet.

B.A.S.E. jumping….buildings, antennas, spans, and earth…was extremely dangerous with no margin for error. When he’d tried to buy the equipment, the guy at the store asked him how many jumps he’d made (zero) and then asked if he’d ever been skydiving (not yet). He’d called him _insane_ and refused to sell to him. It didn’t deter Logan; he just went looking for someone else and finally found a guy who volunteered to do a tandem jump with him.

BASE jumping freefall only lasted a few seconds; not long enough to reach terminal velocity and it all depended on timing. You had to release the small pilot chute at the correct moment so it would pull the bridle taut and deploy the main ram-air parachute from the D-bag. There was no backup chute. If something went wrong with the first one, there was no time for a backup. It required skill and experience. _An inexperienced BASE jumper was a dead BASE jumper._

Standing there in the store Logan contemplated buying the equipment online and making the jump solo anyway. _It would be suicide_. The coroner could disguise it with the words _accidental death_ , but it would still amount to suicide and Logan couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sometimes he wished Gory would’ve followed through on his threat to kill him, then it wouldn’t be his decision. _Do I want to die?_ It wasn’t as eloquent as _to be or not to be_ , but it was still the question. 


	11. 294 DAYS

**294 DAYS**

There was a stain on the motel room ceiling. It was a dark, rusty color and it reminded him of blood. Maybe it _was_ blood; someone murdered in the room above and management was either too cheap or too lazy to clean it. If _she_ was here, her curiosity would make her investigate: _The Case of the Mysterious Stain_. Logan lit another cigarette. He could be staying in the five thousand dollar a night suite at the Bellagio, but he would rather gouge out his own eyes than spend three days with those faces.

Instead he was here in a room reeking of smoke and sex. All night he listened to the hookers out front call to the slowing cars on Freemont. Sometimes the cars drove off with revving engines and screeching tires, but more often, they turned into the motel parking lot, their headlights briefly illuminating the windows. Logan was positive the hotel manager was their pimp. _No check-in required_. It was probably the only revenue this place made. _At least it has a bed_.

For the past two weeks, since Idaho, he’d been living in his car. He kept most of his clothes at the beach house; stopping in for an occasional meal and use of the shower in order to keep Dick from noticing that he was spending his nights elsewhere. His car was just … _easier_. He could pick an isolated spot and get wasted enough to fall asleep; wasted enough to not dream.

The good dreams were worse than the bad ones. At least when he had a bad dream, ones filled with all the terrible shit he’d done and their fighting, he would wake up knowing she was gone. The good dreams left him unprepared for the morning. In that haze between sleep and wakefulness there existed a moment where it all wasn’t true. For that one brief instant, she was still here with him and he felt… _happy_. Then it all came crashing down around him and the pain… _grief_ …was this intense physical ache. It was like losing her all over again.

Yesterday had been one of those mornings and he’d started a letter to her the minute he woke up. It was comprised almost entirely of a song lyric… _all the things that I wished I had not said are played in loops till it’s madness in my head…you could be happy, I hope you are, you made me happier than I’d been by far…somehow everything I own smells of you and for the tiniest moment it’s all not true_. He’d set the letter on fire and threw it from the car window on his way to Hearst.

He was on the bench waiting for Sean when Dick found him and proposed this trip to Vegas. The motive behind it was as simple and easy to read as the rest of Dick’s thoughts… _don’t leave Logan alone all weekend_. Logan found himself agreeing, “ _Yeah, sure man, sounds great_ ,” in order to make Dick disappear before Sean arrived, but he realized his mistake immediately. The plan wasn’t for _later_ ; Dick wanted them to leave _now_. Reluctantly, Logan left the bench and followed him. An entire weekend in Vegas without any chemicals suddenly sounded like a shit idea.

 _Addiction_. If he was addicted to anything, he was addicted to  _her_. It was one of the dangers; temporarily or permanently substituting other highs (coke, weed, oxy) for the primary drug of choice (Veronica). Logan shrugged. There were plenty of _substitutions_ to be found in Sin City to keep his mind busy and free from thoughts of _her_ ; sex, gambling, strippers, alcohol, and if he was lucky, coke. Hell, if he couldn’t find drugs in Vegas than he probably shouldn’t be doing drugs in Vegas. He was just starting to look forward to the trip until they got to the airport and he was reminded once again that Dick was a fucking idiot.

A private jet was waiting for them on the tarmac… _John Enbom’s private jet_ and Logan felt the first wave of panic. It only intensified when he saw the rogue’s gallery waiting for him on board. The same 09er faces from the hallways, the lunch tables, and _Shelly’s party_ : John, Cole, Luke, Casey, Dick. _A guy's weekend_.

Logan spent the hour flight hiding in the cockpit, silently cursing Dick _and_ drinking every drop of alcohol in the galley. It still wasn’t enough. When they touched down, he couldn’t get out of the plane fast enough. A limo was waiting to take them to their suite and Logan took the ride, but as soon as they got to the hotel, he stepped into the crowd and disappeared.

The side streets behind the Stratosphere were full of people looking to score, but Logan had no interest in visiting the Clark County Detention Center and he knew better than to buy drugs on the strip. For a generous tip, a cab driver gave him the name of a bouncer at the Palomino Club that could hook him up. The entire transaction took twelve minutes and eleven of those minutes were the _actual_ drive to the club. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but it was the only place in North Vegas that offered full nudity _and_ alcohol. He scored his drugs and a lap dance before leaving.

It was almost sunrise. If he wanted to be gone before she woke up, now was the time to do it. He stared at the back of her head. Logan felt bad at the thought of leaving her stranded in this shitty neighborhood. He didn’t even know if she had enough money for a cab and the idea of leaving cash on the dresser… _fuck it, I’ll stay_.

She’d been nice to him… _Pam_ …that was her name. No clever song reference or cheap nickname, just Pam. After the Palomino, he’d gone to Caesar’s Palace and found a blackjack table with a two-deck shoe where they hit on a soft seventeen; minimum bet two hundred dollars and Pam was his dealer. Logan was pretty sure she knew he was counting cards, but she didn’t report him for suspicious play. He lit another cigarette.

The bed shifted as Pam rolled over. Logan could feel her eyes on his face, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He took another long pull of his cigarette and continued to stare at the stain on the ceiling. The first word out of her mouth made him instantly regret not bailing when he had the chance. “Veronica?” _Fuck_. He must have called out her name during sex… _again_. “Is she the reason you’re so messed up?”

Logan smirked, “I’ll have you know I was a fuckup long before Veronica. No way does she get to take the credit.”

“You sound proud of your accomplishment.”

“That’s right; world-class, first-rate, _award-winning_ fuckup. It’s the one thing I’m good at.”

Her hand slid across his chest and down his arm. “It’s not the only thing you’re good at.” She took the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her mouth for a drag. “Last night was pretty award winning too.”

Logan frowned and turned to face her. “Why aren’t you pissed?”

Pam stared at him for a minute before asking, “About the name thing?” At his nod, she laughed. “We were exchanging bodily fluids, not wedding vows.”

“Are you sure?” He smirked. “It _is_ Vegas.”

“Believe me, I’m not Mrs.…Logan, I was completely sober last night.”

He looked around the room. “Sober and you let me bring you to this fine establishment?”

More laughter. “You didn’t bring me anywhere; _I_ brought _you_ here.”

Logan shook his head. “I think I’m offended.”

“I’ll make it up to you with breakfast.” She tossed the cigarette in the glass of water on the bedside table and got up. There were no attempts to pull the sheets around her body. She didn’t grab her clothes and make a mad dash for the bathroom to get dressed. There was something very sexy about her bold confidence. He let his eyes travel up the shapely, muscular legs and over the toned belly before lingering on the red satin bra she was snapping into place. Leaning across the bed, she kissed him.

“I can think of other ways you could make it up to me,” he leered at her and suggestively waggled his eyebrows.

“Trust me, this will be better.”

“Doubtful.” With a sigh, he climbed out of bed and started tugging on his clothes. “Weren’t you supposed to buy me food _before_ having your way with me?”

“I let you eat.”

His jaw dropped and she smiled. It was a great smile; slightly crooked with only a glimpse of teeth, but it took up her entire face and reached her eyes. Logan felt himself smiling in return. “Should I review it on Yelp?”

“Only if you plan on giving me five stars.”

“I might need to eat there again before leaving such a high rating.”

Pam paused at the door, “I take reservations.”

“Put me down for tonight: Logan, party of one.” He had no idea what he was doing. This was the time to leave, not make plans to see her again. _I like her_. That thought brought him up short and he pushed it away. _Let’s not get carried away Echolls- it’s only breakfast and sex_. He followed her to a Jeep Wrangler. It was the same bright yellow as his X-terra; he patted the hood like it was an old friend and climbed inside.

Her driving was a 911 call waiting to happen. One hand on the wheel, the other smoking a cigarette and her eyes spent more time looking at him than they did watching the road. Twice she almost crossed the divider and when the other drivers blew their horns, she took her hand from the wheel long enough to flip them off. “Is that why Veronica left you? Because you’re a fuckup?”

“How do you know I didn’t leave her?” She flashed him a shrewd smile and he shook his head in resignation, “yeah that’s why she left.”

“So stop being one and maybe she’ll come back.”

Genuine laughter exploded from his chest. “Yeah that’s about as likely to happen as Nevada suddenly having oceanfront property.”

“Totally possible. One big earthquake to take out you pretty surfer types and it’s bye-bye California, hello Pacific.” She made a right onto North Las Vegas Blvd and pulled into a Farmer Boys drive-thru. Without asking him what he wanted, she ordered French toast, orange juice and coffee for both of them. “It’s a red flag day.”

“I think that’s red letter day.” Logan took the bag of food she passed him. “And this better be some amazing fast food if you don’t want me to regret leaving bed.”

“It’s not the food, it’s the show.” Pam put the juice in the cup holders, handed him his coffee and took a sip of hers. “It’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s the best place to see the dogfight.” At his blank expression, she elaborated. “Nellis? The Air Force base…they fly two sorties a day during red flag exercises.”

“I think I understood maybe six words in that sentence.”

She grinned. “Aerial war games. The blue team are the good guys and they have to destroy targets in the different ranges, the red team tries to stop them. The red team are Nellis pilots flying F-15s and F-16s.”

The further they drove the more desolate the scenery. Logan stared at the vast expanse of nothing. It was all dirt and some hilly peaks in the distance. He twisted his body around and glanced in the backseat. “I don’t see a shovel.”

“Shovel?”

“For after you kill me and need to dispose of the body. Have you dug the grave already? Or do you just leave me out in the open for the vultures?”

“Definitely vultures; digging would ruin my manicure,” she wiggled her fingers at him. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.” Logan dug an Altoids tin from his front pocket, took two oxys with his orange juice and lit a joint. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“You don’t seem too worried. Shouldn’t you be scrambling for the door locks and trying to escape?”

“From a moving car? I might hurt myself.” He offered her the joint, which she took. “Do you bring all your victims out here or am I special?” When she didn’t respond, he opened his eyes and turned his head. She was no longer smiling. “I was only kidding.”

“I hope so.” She passed back the joint. “From one fuckup to another…you don’t want to die.”

“You’re wrong.” _Do I want to die?_ It was the question bouncing around his brain for days and he knew the answer was _no_ , but he also knew he didn’t want to live either. “It’s not like anyone would miss me.”

“Veronica would.”

“Wrong again; you’re two for two, Veronica wouldn’t even _notice_.”

Pam pulled off the dirt road and parked. “Trust me, she would. Just because you can’t be with someone doesn’t mean you stop loving them and if she loves you even half as much as you obviously love her, then she misses you.”

Talking about Veronica was ruining his high. “I’m not really buying you as a fuckup.”

“Tell that to Colonel Mitchell.” She plucked the food bag off his lap and pulled out her French toast. “Eat your breakfast; the vultures prefer a little meat on their bones.”

“Colonel Mitchell?”

“Full bird Colonel, Vice Commander of the 99th also known as Dad.” She rolled her eyes and gave a mock salute. “A very impressive resume, which conveniently omits all references to his blackjack dealing, ex-stripper of a daughter; the one with,” Pam adopted a stern expression and lowered the pitch of her voice, “questionable values and low moral standards.” She ruined her impersonation by grinning.

“So…Daddy issues?”

“Not for _me_ , but he definitely has some.”

Logan didn’t want to talk anymore. He tossed the roach and concentrated on his breakfast. They ate in silence until the sound of the planes made him look up. Pam handed him a pair of binoculars. The jets started in formation and then one at a time they tilted on their sides and drifted away from the line. They dropped what looked like flares with smoking tails. “What are they doing?”

“Simulated machine guns.”

He couldn’t follow the action; red team, blue team- he had no idea, but it was cool watching the planes loop and roll before streaking away. “You were right this was better.”

Pam lowered her binoculars. “Now I think _I’m_ offended.”

Logan smirked. “I’ll make it up to you with dinner.”


	12. 295 DAYS

**295 DAYS**

After a stop at the Bellagio to pick up his stuff, Pam brought him to her apartment for the weekend. She told Dick, _I found him and I’m keeping him_ and once Dick checked out her ass…  _multiple times_ …he was okay with the plan. When Dick asked how he was going to get home, Pam volunteered to drive him. Logan put up a mild protest, but he was _relieved_ at the idea of not having to fly back with the _guys_. Of course, with the way she drove, they’d be lucky to make it back to Neptune alive… _suicide by blackjack dealer_.

They scored an eighth and had sex before she left for work; the swing shift, four to midnight. She left Logan alone in the apartment; her only instructions… _smoke on the patio and save me some_. It was harder to obey the _save me some_ than he thought it would be simply because he was bored. Snooping through the three rooms… _thanks Veronica_ …took him all of fifteen minutes. The only things of interest were the vibrators in her nightstand drawer… _will use those later_ , the bong in the kitchen… _using now_ …and the various photos. He recognized some of the places: The Bradenburg Gate in Berlin, The Sagrada Familia church in Barcelona, and the Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria.

By the time Pam came home with pizza and beer, he’d watched an entire marathon of _I Love Lucy_ , smoked more than half the weed and decided his favorite picture was one of a small Pam in pigtails standing with a leggy brunette… _guessing Mom_... in front of a _Welcome to Bitburg Air Base_ sign. It was framed and sitting on her nightstand so probably a favorite of hers too. Photos of the Colonel were conspicuously absent. “Hey honey how was work?”

“Not bad considering _one_ of us has to have a job.”

“That’s what you get for bringing home strays.”

They shared the pizza while she told him about her night. She assigned names to the players based on character traits like the foul-mouthed cigar smoker became _Baby Herman_ from _Who Framed Roger Rabbit,_ the guy there for his bachelor party was _Tom Hanks_ , and the rude old lady gambling away her social security check was _Momma_ as in _Throw Momma from the Train_. “It’s a residual effect from growing up around pilots and their call signs.” He arched a brow at her. “Call signs like Maverick and Goose from Top Gun.”

Logan grinned. “What was your name for me?”

“Bodhi… _they only live to get radical_ …from Point Break.”

He laughed and gave her his best Bodhi impersonation. “Life sure does have a sick sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

Groaning, she put her head on the table. “I don’t know what’s worse your Swayze or the fact that I _know_ that’s a quote from the movie.”

“That film is an achievement of modern cinema.”

“ _Achievement?_ You smoked all the weed didn’t you?” Logan shook his head. “Good boy.” She grabbed both of their beers and walked out to the patio.

If you leaned over the edge you could see the communal pool, but once you sat the view was restricted to the tan stucco half wall. He dropped into the lounge chair. The only things he needed to see were her fantastic legs and the bong she was holding. “Songs. I’ve been naming my random hookups after songs.”

“A residual effect of Veronica?” She sang a few bars of _Veronica_ by Elvis Costello and he ducked his head so she wouldn’t see his expression… _busted_. “What’s mine? And if you say Polythene Pam, I may hit you.”

Logan frowned. “Hmm… is it the _looks like a man_ or _you should see her in drag_ that has you threatening me with bodily harm?”

She finished packing the bowl, put her lips in the top of the chamber and held a lighter to the weed until it was cherried. He watched her suck the smoke up the tube, pull out the bowl and inhale all the remaining smoke with no breaks or pauses. _Impressive_. Pam held the smoke in her lungs and passed him the bong. Logan took a hit and put the water pipe down on the table between them.

“I didn’t give you a song.”

“Give me one now.”

He shrugged. “Blackjack?” It was her turn to frown at him. “What? It’s a song…Ray Charles… _the dealer hit sixteen with a five_.” Pam shook her head. “Legs, ZZ-Top?” She rolled her eyes. “Fine, you pick.”

“Well,” she stretched out the word as a brazen smile crossed her face. “I used to dance to Closer by Nine Inch Nails.”

The opening bass drumbeats immediately started to pulse in his head… _I want to fuck you like an animal…I want to feel you from the inside_. His mouth went dry and it wasn’t from the pot. “Uh,” Logan licked his bottom lip, “I think it might be _necessary_ for me to see your act first…I wouldn’t want to make an uninformed decision.”

“Necessary?” He gave her a solemn nod, which made her smile widen. “I suppose that’s only fair.” Pam took another hit from the bong. “My costume is still in my closet.” Logan started to get up and she held out her hand to stop him. “Where are you going?”

“I thought you were going to…present your case.”

She laughed. “Not tonight.” Disappointed, he dropped back into the lounger. “Aww, don’t pout.” She abandoned her chair and straddled his lap. “Tomorrow, as a going away present, I promise.”

Logan buried his fingers in her copper hair and pulled her down for a kiss. He could smell the cigar from _Baby Herman_ in her hair and her tongue tasted sweet and smoky from the pot. Leaning forward, Pam pressed her hands flat on his chest; first, deepening the kiss and then pushing him away. “The meaning of the word strip _tease_ is now painfully clear.”

“Am I making it hard…” She rolled her hips, grinding their bodies together. “…for you to wait?”

“Bitch,” he hissed the word between clenched teeth.

She only laughed at him and got off his lap. “That’s the other song I used to dance to.” Her hands slid up her parted thighs as her hips started to rotate. “Hey, you’re a crazy bitch,” she sang the words and popped the button of her jean shorts, “but you fuck so good, I’m on top of it.” The zipper started down, “when I dream, I’m doing you all night.” She stopped dancing.

 _Fuck_. Logan groaned. “Why are you stopping?”

“That’s what we in the biz call a preview.” She grinned. “What did you do while I was gone?” Sitting back down, she picked up the bong and tapped her nail against the glass, “besides search my apartment for paraphernalia.” Her emphasis on that last word told him she wasn’t just talking about the bong but her collection of toys in the nightstand.

He needed to think about something else… _fast_. “Uh, I checked out your photos.” _Dads were a definite mood killer_. “I didn’t see any pictures of the Colonel.” He’d gone from dating a girl whose dad carried a gun… _Keith…_ to sleeping with a girl whose dad dropped _bombs_. Logan shook his head. Maybe Veronica was right _again_ , his death wish was apparent even in his choice of bedmates.

Pam busied herself packing another bowl and answered him with a vague, “there are some.”

“The one on your nightstand…” A sly, knowing smile from her at the mention of her nightstand. “Is that you and your mom?” She nodded and took a hit. “Are you two close?”

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes and slowly exhaled before passing him the bong. “She died when I was five. Not long after that picture was taken.”

 _Nope, not going to discuss dead Moms_. “Bitburg Germany?”

“That’s where I was born.” She turned her face toward him. “Are we really going to have a first date conversation?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “Okay, in order Bitburg, Zaragoza, that’s in Spain, Keesler, Griffiss, Moody, Laughlin, and McClellan.” At his blank expression, she clarified. “Those are the bases where I grew up.”

He took another hit. It wasn’t the strongest weed and his tolerance level was high, but he was still completely baked. “Did you like it? The…” Logan searched for the word and couldn’t find it, but it didn’t matter because Pam was already shaking her head.

“Fucking hated it. Always being the new kid and by the time I made friends either we were leaving or they were. It was worse when he was deployed or on some _mission_ , he’d make me stay with these strange families I didn’t even know. Depending on how long he was gone, they’d pass me around.”

“Sounds lonely,” is what he said, _sounds fucking perfect,_ is what he was thinking. _No Aaron._

“It’s no way for a kid to grow up.” She picked up the pack of cigarettes, lit one for him and then one for herself. “After my mom died I would have these nightmares every time he went away…I was afraid he was going to die too and leave me alone, you know?” Taking a deep drag, she cracked her jaw and blew smoke rings. She stared at them until they disintegrated. “He didn’t give a fuck. The air force is his _life_ and I was an inconvenience.”

Chris Rock started talking in Logan’s head … _my only job in life is to keep my baby off the pole… they don’t grade fathers, but if your daughter’s a stripper- you fucked up_. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “How’d you end up in Vegas?”

Pam shrugged. “It wasn’t some big plan. McClellan was up in Sacramento and the minute I turned eighteen, I hit the interstate. Eighty runs right through Reno.” She grinned, “I got a job dancing in some club Wild something. I told them all I was Rosie from Baltimore like in the song Girl Money by Kix?” She sang the lines, “long-legged Rosie from Baltimore, took me farther than I’ve been before.”

She disappeared into the apartment. When she returned, she was carrying two more beers and another bag of pot. “Where’d that come from?” It definitely wasn’t in her apartment or he would’ve found it hours ago.

“Girl at work; didn’t know if I could trust you to save me some.” She dropped the baggie on the table, picked up the bong and went back inside. There were ice cubes in it when she handed it to him. “It’s like smoking a rush of cold air, very smooth.”

He’d only used water, never ice, but he didn’t care. Opening the baggie, he started to pack the bowl. “So Reno to Vegas,” he prompted.

“Nope; I’m done, your turn.” Logan was going to need more than weed if she expected to hear his life story. Digging out his oxy, he swallowed two and handed the tin to her. Pam took one, “that bad huh?”

All he said was, “my last name is Echolls,” and then he waited.

It took her a few minutes. If he wasn’t so wasted he could probably follow her train of thought, but he was having enough trouble keeping his _own_ thoughts straight. Finally, her eyes widened and she handed him the lighter. “You need that more than I do.”

Logan grinned and fired up the bong. “Where should I start? Childhood abuse, Mom’s suicide, dear old Dad first fucking and then killing my girlfriend before trying to set Veronica on fire or should I start at now and work my way backwards?”

“Remind me to send my dad a happy Father’s Day card okay?”

He smirked. “Does Hallmark make a thanks for not being an abusive murderer card?”

“I’ll just buy a blank one and write it myself.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the chair. “Come on, you need a pick me up.”

Logan let her lead him to the sofa and watched as she pushed the coffee table out of the way. She got a chair from the dining room and set it in the middle of the floor with the back facing him. Then she disappeared into the bedroom and returned carrying a floor lamp. Once she’d plugged it in, she angled the lights toward the chair and killed the overheads creating a makeshift stage. “Am I allowed to touch?”

“You’re going to do more than touch.” She found The Downward Spiral CD, put it in the player and handed him the remote. “Track five; I’ll tell you when to hit play.”

 


	13. 302 DAYS

**302 DAYS**

Morbid fun fact number one: the Coronado Bridge is the third deadliest suicide bridge in the United States. There were actual _signs_ on the bridge urging jumpers to _make the call._ Logan knew the final line by heart: _the consequences of jumping from this bridge are fatal and tragic_.  It was as good an epitaph as any and those were the words he used on his mother’s headstone.

He missed the anniversary of her death. It happened while he was jumping off cliffs in Jamaica. Everything in his life had a count. The years since _Papa_ killed Lilly – five. The years since Mom took her dive – three. The days since Veronica left – three hundred and two. Logan lit another cigarette. There was no smoking on the grounds of Pacific View Memorial Park, but _fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke_.

It wasn’t really a headstone, just a marker. He’d had it made of concrete and steel; the same materials they used to build the Coronado Bridge. There were no dates on it or the words _beloved_ anything. It read _‘Lester’_ in capital letters and beneath it the words: _‘fatal and tragic.’_   The grave was almost as pointless as Aaron’s water urn, but Logan actually felt _bad_ when that fucking thing burned in the fire so he bought this stupid plot.

Nobody knew the empty grave existed, not even Veronica. It was his secret and he liked to come here alone. Never on the anniversary of her death because that was just too… _clichéd_ …but sometimes when he wanted to… _reflect_. Logan smirked at the lie. _Reflection_ had nothing to do with it; he came here when he was feeling lonely. You could see the ocean from the gardens and it was peaceful. It also didn’t make him think about jumping like a visit to the bridge usually did.

Morbid fun fact number two: when bodies spend a long time in water they come apart at weak points. Ankles and wrists are the weakest points and feet are usually in shoes. Those shoes can have either a buoyant rubber sole or can trap air pockets, which allows the severed feet to float to shore.

His mother wasn’t wearing sneakers. She had on a pair of sling-back designer heels that matched her handbag and complemented the pearl suit jacket and skirt she was wearing. She even remembered to wear her pearl earrings that afternoon for the meeting with Van Clemmons. Never let it be fucking said that Lynn Echolls couldn’t coordinate an outfit. Of course, no rubber soles meant no severed foot for Logan. _Fuck_.

Lighting another cigarette, he sprawled on the stone bench and stared at the sky. _But you gave me your emptiness, I now take to my grave…I need your arms to welcome me, but a cold stone’s all I see_. He dry swallowed a Norco. It wasn’t his mother’s drug of choice, but it was better than a Vicodin, less acetaminophen and more hydrocodone.

It was the last time he saw his mother; heels clacking down the hall of Neptune High. _No, that’s not true_. The last time he saw his mother was inside the journalism classroom as a tiny blur on a DVD. _It’s time-stamped 4:37 p.m._ The next day, he’d tracked down Hart Hanson and made him turn over a copy of his shitty movie. Logan watched the scene on repeat four hundred and thirty-seven times. _Everything in my life has a count_.

It should be simple… _I love my mother_ …but it wasn’t. Nothing was ever that simple in the life of Logan Echolls. His feelings for his mother were… _conflicted_. He’d been thinking about her nonstop since Vegas. It was probably that smiling, happy picture of Pam with her mother outside the Air Force base. If there were any pictures like that of him with his mother, he didn’t remember them and he couldn’t go looking for them either. _Thanks Weevil_. There were some online- the benefits of being a child of two movie stars, but they weren’t _real_. Those photos were ‘ _let’s play happy family for the masses_.’

 _I love my mother_. Most of the time it was true, but there were other times… _darker moments_ …when he would confront the fact that he hated her too. He lit another cigarette and promptly threw it away. Nicotine wasn’t cutting it. _There’s nobody here, but us dead people._ He lit a joint and, in honor of his location, took a ghost hit. Logan smirked. _I see dead people._

He knew _exactly_ when he started hating his mother. They were on location in New York City for another one of Aaron’s crapfests and they were staying in a suite at the St. Regis. Aaron _hated_ the room. The litany of complaints ranged from it being the wrong view… _the street instead of the park_ …to it being too small for him… _I’m the star of this goddamn movie!_ Trying to calm him down and make it better, his mother prattled on with useless information. _Marilyn Monroe and Salvador Dali slept here_. Logan didn’t even know who the fuck they _were_ never mind caring where they _slept_. He would’ve been more impressed if she told him _Big Bird_ was a guest.

Lying in bed listening to them fight made Logan’s stomach hurt. He was anxious and jumpy and scared. He didn’t remember actually falling asleep, but when he woke up it was still dark, the suite was quiet and he’d wet the bed. Logan could feel the same growing sense of panic he felt then, even with the sedative effects of the Norco.

The suitcases with his clean pajamas were in the bedroom with his parents. He tried to be quiet, but he was _five_ and quiet wasn’t exactly a setting he came equipped with. Aaron caught him before he even reached the suitcase. The light snapped on and Logan froze under the angry gaze of his father. It took a few minutes for his mother to wake and when she saw his wet pajamas all she said was _Oh, Logan_.

She started to get out of bed, but Aaron held her back and got up instead. He clearly remembered the look on Aaron’s face as he dragged him back to his room. He made Logan strip off his pajamas while he raged about how embarrassing this was for _him_. Standing there naked and shivering, he watched Aaron pull the sheets from the mattress screaming that his child was no better trained than a dog. Then he said, _‘maybe that’s what I need to do; train you like a dog.’_  

He shoved the wet sheets in Logan’s face, grabbed the first thing he could find … _a hairbrush_ … and started smacking him with it. When it was finally over, Logan looked up and saw his mother standing in the doorway holding a pair of clean pajamas. That was the moment love and hate for his mother became entwined; _why do you let him do this to me?_ It took him years to understand that she was terrified too.

Morbid fun fact number three: approximately seventy-five percent of women who are killed by their batterers are only murdered when they attempt to leave or after they have left. _No other way out_. Aaron pushed her off that bridge. He made her _want_ to die. It didn’t matter that Aaron wasn’t _physically_ there, he was still responsible. _My father killed my mother_. It made Logan hate himself for ever being angry at her, but that self-hatred and the guilt that inevitably followed didn’t stop him from feeling the anger.

 _I love my mother_. Logan closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun. He wasn’t just lonely, he was alone. Now that his mother was gone there was no one left in the world to care what happened to him. He didn’t belong anywhere. Opening the prescription bottle, he poured the four remaining pills into his palm. He dry swallowed two and put the other two on Lynn’s headstone. Logan knew he wouldn’t be coming back here. “Goodbye, Mom.” 


	14. 311 DAYS

**311 DAYS**

"Dude, yacht party this weekend."

Logan paused in his packing. "I'm going to Vegas for the weekend to see Pam."

A lewd smile from Dick. "The stripper?"

 _Ex-stripper,_ Logan silently corrected, but it didn't stop the picture of Pam in her costume from forming in his brain: black leather halter top and matching ruffled mini-skirt with stilettos, thigh-high stockings and garters.  _Too vivid_. He shook his head to dispel the image. "She's a blackjack dealer."

"Uh-huh and I'm the Pope."

"That explains the funny hat." Pam was going to come to Neptune for the weekend, but she couldn't switch her shifts and asked him to come to her instead.  _I'll make it worth your while_. Logan grinned. He had no doubt that she would think of some creative way to show her appreciation for his five hour drive. "Who's yacht?"

"Carrie…you know, from high school."

Logan nodded. The Bishops' sailboat,  _Serendipity_ , was docked at the Albacore Club in a slip not far from his… _Aaron's_  yacht. He hadn't been on that boat since… " _So it's, uh, what is the word? A date? Tennish- Albacore Club, slip five_." That was the day she'd found out about the GHB.

He squeezed his eyes closed and went back to thinking about Pam. "Who else is going?"

Dick shrugged. "Her friend Susan, Luke, Gia…"

"You remember high school is over, right? We  _graduated._ Cap, gown, big ceremony. Don't you think it's time to make new friends?"

"Like the Vegas—"

"Watch how you finish that sentence," Logan interrupted.

"So what are you two like dating now?"

"No, we're…"  _Fuck Buddies? Friends with Benefits? Sad, lonely individuals with fucked up lives?_

**XXXX**

_Sad, lonely individuals with fucked up lives who were skydiving while baked._

Pam baked brownies and Logan.  _Is that a zeugma?_ He was pretty sure it was.  _Or maybe a syllepsis?_  He smirked.  _A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but a wasted mind_ … Could you overdose on pot? Get too high? Considering their altitude that last thought made him  _giggle_.

"You're so fucked up," Pam shouted to be heard over the wind rushing into the small plane.

Strapped to his chest with her back to him, she couldn't see exactly  _how_  fucked up he was and Logan was grateful. If she knew, she'd probably call an end to this plan — _her plan_ — and make the pilot return the PAC-750 plane to the landing strip at Boulder City Municipal Airport. And he wanted to jump.  _Needed_  to jump.

He was  _definitely_  overdosing on pot. The nice, relaxed,  _floaty_  feeling was giving way to paranoia.  _Does the pilot know I'm wasted?_   _Was it illegal to skydive while stoned?_  Fifteen thousand feet in the air and Logan was  _positive_  he could hear police sirens.

Pam was right; he'd eaten too many brownies.  _We're going to die_. How the hell was he supposed to know that it took  _hours_  to start feeling the effects of an edible? Pam should've put a warning label on the plate of double-fudge brownies: 'high THC content - don't eat more than one.' Instead he'd had… three? Four?

Logan pressed his lips to her ear. "To die by your side, well, the pleasure and the privilege is mine."

"Are you quoting the fucking  _Smiths_  to me?" Pam sounded  _appalled_ , which just made him laugh.

He treated her to his off-key rendition of the song. "I never want to go home because I haven't got one." His voice climbed along with his high. "And if a double decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die."

Pam jumped from the plane; the tandem harness taking him with her.  _She rather die than listen to me sing anymore_. The freefall was exhilarating and terrifying. A hundred and thirty miles an hour, two hundred feet a second, and he was  _flying_. The Smiths were right this  _was_  a heavenly way to die. He frowned.  _No, Morrissey wanted to get hit by a bus_.  _Stupid fucker_. Logan wasn't sure if he was still talking about Morrissey or himself as they plummeted toward the earth and his untimely demise.

The slight jerk of the harness pulled him from his thoughts. Logan tilted his head back to watch the red, white, and blue rectangular parachute. Two forces at work. Gravity —pulling them down— competing with the upward drag force of the chute.  _Thanks, science_.

Logan knew there was another shitty metaphor in here somewhere. Aaron, his mother, the past,  _Veronica_  - all pulling him down. While the drugs, sex, and alcohol were the parachutes he was using to reduce his drop velocity and mitigate the damage of a crash landing. And yet, Logan didn't want to be caught in the push and pull. He wanted to jump again. Experience that minute of freedom.

They hit the ground running. He stumbled and took them both down. "Asshole," Pam muttered as she worked to free them from the lines.

 _Was she mad?_  She didn't sound angry, but Logan couldn't be sure and he wasn't sure if he cared. He didn't offer his assistance; he just laid there staring at the clouds.  _I'm not dead_. While not a comforting thought, it was a sobering one.  _No, not sober -_ far _from sober_.

Pam's concerned face blocked his view of blue sky and shielded him from the painful glare of sunshine. "Are you okay?" With her thumb and forefinger she pried apart first one of his heavy-lidded eyes and then the other. "You're ripped."

It was her fault.

When he'd arrived at her apartment, she'd been straining a batch of cannabis oil from her slow cooker. Despite the open doors and windows, the entire place reeked of pot, but Logan was too distracted by her ass to make the connection between the pot smell and the freshly baked brownies. So he ate one while watching her ass shake in the faded, cutoff shorts, to the sound of The Temptations singing " _I Can't Get Next to You_." And he had another one as her hips started to swing to " _Ain't Too Proud to Beg._ "

By the time she'd turned around to catch him watching her, he was on his third. Then he'd completely lost count in between the rough, frantic sex against the counter and the slower, more leisurely round on the kitchen floor.

"Logan" —Pam smacked his cheek bringing him back to his present circumstances— "You have to get up."

He didn't want to get up; he wanted to take a nap. Ingesting pot was different from his usual high. Smoking, he could feel the effect in a few minutes and he always knew when he'd reached the right level.  _Science has a term for that, too_. Logan frowned as he searched his brain for the word.  _Titration_. He'd passed that level  _hours_  ago and he was still climbing. "I'm cold."

Grabbing his hands, Pam pulled him into a seated position. "We need to go  _now_."

"Are the police coming?" He didn't know how he was going to explain this to Veronica.  _I don't cheat_. But he was here with Pam and he knew for a fact that he'd spent the better part of the afternoon buried deep inside her - fucking her on the kitchen floor. He groaned.

This was worse than Madison. Madison had been an aberration of horrible sex and self-loathing. He'd been so sure that breaking up with Veronica was the best thing for both of them. That he was being fucking  _noble_  ending things before he could hurt her. Enter Madison Sinclair. Alone and hurting and almost done with his Christmas bottle of Macallen— he had let Madison fuck him. He'd kept his eyes closed and tried to pretend she was someone else, but even his imagination wasn't that good. When she was done, he'd pushed her off and went to throw up in the bathtub.  _So much for not hurting Veronica_.

He tried to focus on Pam here in the present. This was  _way_  worse than Madison. Logan groaned again. "She's never going to forgive me," he mumbled. He hung his head and stared at the ground not quite sure how he went from supine to standing.  _If I could vomit_ now _, I'd feel better_. Pam was tugging him across the field. Logan smacked at her hands. "I don't wanna go to jail."

"You're greening out." She pushed him into the passenger seat of her car and shoved a water bottle in his hands. "Drink that."

"Is it vodka?"

"Yeah, absolutely." She rolled her eyes.  _Just like Veronica_.

"Absolutely Absolut- that should be its slogan." He took a healthy swig and spit it out. "Water."

"If you don't fucking drink that, I'm going to pour it down your throat."

Logan laughed. "Big words from such a little thing."

True to her word, Pam straddled his lap, put the bottle to his lips and upended it. Logan spewed water across her face and grabbed the bottle from her fingers. "Okay, okay, you're really harshing my mellow." Under her watchful eye, he drank the bottle. "Satisfied,  _Ve-ro-ni-ca_?" His tongue undulating each syllable enjoying the feel of her name in his mouth.

Pam flatly told him, "I'm not Veronica," as she removed herself from his lap. "Buckle up."

"Why? Is it going to be a bumpy night?" She just stared at him. "Bette Davis? Anne Baxter?  _Fasten your seatbelts_ … have you never seen All About Eve? No? Well, this is all about Veronica."

"Shut up, Logan."


	15. 318 DAYS

**318 DAYS**

Sean called  _him_  this time.  _That's why they're called pushers, Echolls_. "Haven't heard from you in a while." If he was pissed about the lack of business he didn't say anything.

"I've been busy." He'd scored enough drugs before leaving Vegas — _an ounce of coke and sixty oxys_ — to keep from having to call Sean. "Got to keep up that GPA."  _At least until this meeting with the Dean_.

"Riiight…so, I'm in LA."

"And you need my address for the wish you were here postcard?" He smirked. "Hey, think you can find one with my dad's star on the Walk of Fame? I keep meaning to visit- just haven't found the time."

"Uh…I…um," Sean stammered as if he couldn't seem to decide if Logan was serious or not. He quickly recovered. "Sure, okay. Listen how would you like to make some fast cash?"

Logan stopped in the middle of the quad, pulled the phone away and stared at it for an incredulous moment. Shaking his head, he put it back to his ear and resumed his walk to the administration building. "I'm not exactly hurting for money…did you miss the Dad has a star on Hollywood Boulevard part of our conversation?"

"Yeah, well that's why I need you."

 _This was going to be good_. "Go on."

"There's this rave…more like a party…happening tonight and it's very exclusive, invitation only." The slight hesitations and leading tone were dead giveaways.  _Sean wants a favor_. Logan remained silent and waited for the actual  _asking_. "I need you to get me in."

The Echolls name still had a certain cachet attached to it; even if it was only for the notoriety factor. "Why?"

"It's being thrown by a bunch of A-Listers. You know celebutantes and Hollywood brats." He stumbled over that last word in his realization that Logan might take offense.  _Way to ask me for help, Sean_. "It could mean a lot of money for me if I get in with that crowd."

"What makes you think I could score an invite?"

"I've, uh, already asked around."  _Not good_. "And, uh, I've got your invitation."

Logan sighed. "So use it."

"That's not how this works.  _You_  have to be there."

"And what are you? My plus one?" He was growing bored with this conversation. "Not interested."

"These rich kids want a rave experience without the undesirable element—"

"Meaning you."

Sean continued talking like he didn't hear him. "They've rented a warehouse on LaBrea, hired a top EDM DJ and they even have  _Daft Punk_  coming."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Don't you think they have their own friendly neighborhood drug dealer?"

"A little competition is good for business."

It sounded like the makings of a new reality television show:  _Drug Wars- Hollywood Edition_. "Pass."

Finding a new dealer was going to be a bitch. Logan frowned. It wasn't the fear of approaching an undercover cop — _thanks, Sheriff Vinnie_ — it was the potential discovery of his drug use by the  _tabloids_ that made him cautious _._

He was no longer paying attention to Sean and only caught the tail end of his sentence. "—hot drunk girls from Pepperdine and Stanford?"

The word  _Stanford_  had Logan salivating like one of Pavlov's fucking dogs. He  _knew_  Veronica would never be at this type of party.  _Really Echolls, what do you know about Stanford-Veronica? Maybe she has friends and joins clubs and goes to parties_. Logan smirked.  _Yeah, that seemed likely_. No, Veronica wouldn't be there and yet here he was chasing the thought down the rabbit hole.  _And if you go chasing rabbits and you know you're going to fall, tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call_. There would be no magic  _drink me_  potion at the end of his fall, but there  _would_  be drugs. "Okay, I'm in."

Sean gave him the address and told him he'd meet him in front of the warehouse at eight. Logan shut off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He'd been summoned to the Dean's office. Not the same office where Dean O'Dell was murdered. The new Dean — _Wittner... Wattner... Whatever_ — thought it was too morbid to have his office in a crime scene.

This command performance was unnecessary. Logan was sure they were going to ask him to leave.  _Bye-bye Hearst_. It wasn't his grades, which were okay, but his absences. Logan smirked-  _and my attitude_.

The secretary —also new— waved him right in and Logan pushed open the office door almost eager to end the charade of his  _'college years.'_  He was only here because of  _her_. Attending college, making plans for the future, doing something with his life other than living on his trust fund and surfing were things  _she_  wanted for him.  _Yeah, so why are you still here, Echolls? She's been gone for_ … Logan immediately shut down the thought.  _No more thinking about Veronica_.

Dean Whatever wasn't alone. Boring Brach was sitting in one of the upholstered guest chairs.

 _Fuck_. Logan dropped into the vacant chair next to her. She spoke first. "Dean Wilmher wants to put you on academic probation."

When the silence stretched past a few minutes, he pushed himself out of his seat. "Good talk."

"Sit down, Mr. Echolls."

Logan stared at her, undecided. If he walked it would be over and he could just go do…  _nothing_.

He sat back down and waited while she pulled a file from the leather bag at her feet. It was a thick file and its tab read: Echolls, L.  _Ah, could it be the infamous 'permanent record' they've been threatening me with since kindergarten?_  Another smirk crossed his face.  _It should be bigger_  —his gaze dropped to the bag—  _Maybe this is just volume one_.

She pulled a sheaf of papers from the top of the pile. It was his  _not-optional_  essay from his 19th Century Poetry class- the analysis of  _Life in a Love_  by Robert Browning. There was a big, red A on the front of the paper. "Your grades are not the problem."

 _Great, another blonde who wants to point out my flaws_. "Right, so what's your angle? Does Hearst need a new library?" He waved his arm over the opulent office space. "Someone to pay for the Dean's new digs?"

Brach's eyes narrowed. "My  _angle_ , Mr. Echolls, is to help you."

"Funny, but you don't look like Michelle Pfeiffer" —his gaze raked over her— "Not hot enough."

"Mr. Echolls," admonished Dean Wilmher. "I told you this was a mistake, Lorraine."

It was the Dean's turn to receive one of her withering stares. "You've already agreed to—" She shook her head. "Why don't you leave me to explain things to… Logan."

Tossing his hands in surrender, he vacated first his chair and then the office. "I hope you know what you're doing," was Wilmher's parting shot before closing the door behind him.

"What  _are_  you doing?" Logan was genuinely curious now.

She ignored the question. "First, there will be no more missing classes."

"That's not—"

Cutting him off she continued, "Second, in exchange for overlooking your absences, your professors have graciously provided you with extra credit assignments." She passed him the thick file she was holding. "You have two weeks to turn them in and you need at least a B on each."

"Why?"

"Isn't that obvious? They want to see an  _effort_  from you before they put themselves out there."

"No, I meant—"

"Third, you will meet with me for an hour once a week so we can review your progress. I have office hours on Friday afternoons so let's say from four to five. And Mr. Echolls... Logan? Don't come to my office wasted."

**XXXX**

_Don't come to my office wasted_.  _How about I don't go to your office, period_. Logan leaned his head against the exposed brick wall and closed his eyes against the onslaught of lasers. This was the rich, chic version of a rave. No abandoned warehouses or cheap industrial spaces for the rolling kids of the wealthy. They'd rented a space… an artist's  _loft_ …  _gallery_  ...whichever one sounded more pretentious… to hold their exclusive, by invitation only, fake rave. Logan wondered how much it was costing them to actually have Daft Punk here and then dismissed the thought-  _don't care_.

What he  _did_  care about was why he was still here. The  _waow-waow_  of the synthesizers was giving him a headache.  _I need you more than anything in my life_.

"Are you the guy with the molly?"

"No."  _I want you more than anything in my life_.

Her lower lip jutted out in a pretty pout. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Maybe one of those celebutantes Sean said would be here – famous for being famous. Logan looked at her again and the words 'sex tape' floated through his brain with the synthesized music:  _I'll miss you more than anyone in my life._

Amateur porn star was wearing a scalloped lace bandeau the same shade of agate green as her upturned eyes and a low-rise, distressed denim mini skirt that exposed a perfectly tanned, toned midriff. "But I have some," Logan said before she could walk away.  _I love you more than anyone in my life._

Taking her hand, he led her toward the bar at the back of the open loft. As payment for his entrance into the party, Sean gave him enough free MDMA to roll with the amateur porn star  _and_  half the girls here. Ducking his head, he put his lips to her ear and asked: "You have a tissue?"

She nodded and dug through her clutch for a packet of Kleenex while he got two glasses of water from the bartender. Logan separated the two-ply tissue and gently ripped it in half. Normally he'd never buy molly in a capsule —too easy to cut the powder with something else— but he knew these were pure. He shook two pills from the bottle and the brunette flashed him a smile.

Opening one capsule, he dumped the powdered contents into the center of the tissue. Folding up the edges of the Kleenex, he created a little pocket of powder, twisted the top and carefully tore away the excess tissue. Logan passed her the "parachute" and he made one for himself. Together, they dropped the balls on the back of their tongues and swallowed them down with the water.

He doubled his dose and it took about twenty minutes for his skin to start tingling and the music to start sounding good. The brunette was talking to him —she wouldn't  _stop_  talking— and randomly touching him. Her hands were all over his body and then she was pulling him on to the dance floor.

Logan needed a name for her.  _Molly_  was too trite. And —thanks to a memorable Oscar party with Harvey Greenblatt's daughter— it would be confusing to include having sex with  _two_  Mollys in his memoir. She was way more poser than punk.  _Daft?_  Synonyms rolled through his head —silly, goofy, loony— and he settled for Daffy.

 _Stay hydrated_. He went to the bar to get them more water. This was a good high. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed this peaceful, easy feeling. Logan grinned.  _I'm an Eagles song_. Holding the drinks in the air, he danced his way back to Daffy.

She downed her drink and tossed away the plastic cup. In the past hour, her touching had progressed from just using her hands to rubbing her entire body against his and pulling his head down to kiss him. She pulled his head down now, but instead of a kiss, she whispered in his ear: "Let's fuck."

His mouth closed over hers and he slid his hands down her spine and briefly cupped her ass before moving lower. Gripping her thighs, he lifted her from the floor, spreading her legs. Daffy wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her hands in his hair. This was another reason he loved the high from molly- the…  _enhanced appreciation …_ of touch and taste. The softness of her lips and the feel of her tongue as it licked and stroked the hollows of his mouth felt amazing.

As he walked them across the floor, his fingers dipped beneath the hem of her skirt to caress the curve of her ass. Tearing her mouth away, she pointed to the other side of the room away from the bar. "Couches," she panted.

He didn't need to be told twice. Both sectionals were occupied, but that didn't slow him down. He sat her on the back of the nearest couch. Pushing her knees apart, he spread her thighs.

"Wait." She stood and shimmied off a lacy thong. He had just enough time to notice the slip of silk was the same sexy shade of green before she reclaimed his mouth and balanced herself once again on the back of the sofa. Logan slid a finger deep inside and found her wet and ready.

Daffy moaned against his mouth as he added a second finger and scissored them inside her. His thumb found and circled her clit. Inserting a third finger, he started to pump. Logan bent his head to watch as she released her grip on the sofa and pushed the bandeau down exposing her breasts to him. Her fingers pinched and twisted at her nipples until they were hard, tight peaks. Logan flicked his tongue over each tip.

"Condoms are in my back pocket," he instructed as he sucked at her breast, laving the puckered flesh with his tongue. He bit at her nipple, tugging it between his teeth and then turned his head to devote the same attention to her other breast.

Sliding her hands into his back pockets in search of the condoms shifted her position on the sofa pushing his fingers deeper. A sharp intake of breath against his ear and Logan knew he'd found her spot. Crooking his middle finger, he stroked the rough patch of skin until he felt her thighs start to tremble.  _No orgasm without me_. He withdrew his fingers.

The pretty little pout made a reappearance and he gave her a wicked grin. Taking the condom from her, he tore the package open with his teeth while her nimble fingers freed him from his jeans.

His eyes met hers and he froze.

They'd darkened to the same smoky shade as Lilly's eyes right before she came. Logan stumbled back a step. Heightened awareness of touch and taste were one thing, but he could do without  _sight_. Logan spun her around, put his palm on her back and urged her down toward the sofa.

Daffy went willingly; her hands curling around gray suede upholstery and pushing her ass into the air. Logan rolled on the condom and took her from behind, driving away all thoughts of Lilly with each thrust.


	16. 319 DAYS

**319 DAYS**

Logan stayed by Daffy's side throughout the rest of the rave. He'd supplied her with more molly and water and booze, but he'd cut himself off from further drugs or alcohol. Not because he was having a good time without them, but because of the other guys at the party.

Fucking Daffy in a room full of people was not his best idea. It turned her into chum in shark-infested waters. The men circled her with predatory looks waiting for their chance to fuck her too and Logan was not having any part of that. There was  _no way_  he was leaving her defenseless and alone to be… his mind shied away from the word.

It wasn't noble or  _chivalrous_ ; it was guilt. He gave her the drugs and he was responsible for her. This was  _not_  going to be another lesson learned the hard way.

They stayed when Daft Punk finished their set. Stayed when Daffy's three friends split for another party. Stayed until the only people in the room were the two of them; the DJ packing up his equipment; Sean and the other drug-dealer, who now seemed to be Sean's best friend; and, the guys that  _refused_ to take the hint as they waited for Daffy to dump Logan.

_Finally_ , she agreed to let him take her home.

Home was a luxury apartment building in Hancock Park. Its apartment floor plans were named after movie stars — _thank god there was no Echolls_ — and her two-bedroom, two-bath apartment was known as the Crawford. She took him on the grand tour. Ten foot ceilings, gourmet kitchen with black granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances, a spiral staircase leading to a loft and rooftop terrace. It was the epitome of every Hollywood home he'd been in since birth. And Logan hated every inch of it.

Molly made you chatty. Not the incoherent, disconnected ideas that, while you were still stoned, you thought were simply  _brilliant_. And not the slurred rants of a drunk. This was clear, understandable word vomit. Daffy's  _incessant_  conversation made his head hurt worse than the EDM.

He desperately wanted to leave, but he didn't want her to wake up alone tomorrow.

Molly was  _not_  GHB. It didn't induce blackouts or memory loss.

Daffy knew  _exactly_  what she was doing and she wanted to do it again- with him. She led him to the master suite, stripped off her clothes, and pushed him down on the black, tufted bed. The entire apartment was like being inside an arty, black and white photo. No color anywhere.

Logan stared at the ceiling while Daffy unsnapped his jeans. There was no fan, but the words 'sex tape' reverberated through his brain again.  _Uh, uh – not happening_. Briefly, he wondered how much a Logan Echolls —son of a murdering movie star— sex tape would fetch on the Internet. He sat up. Effortlessly, he scooped Daffy off her feet and plopped her in the middle of the white comforter before standing. "I'm not in the mood."

The pout wasn't so pretty this time. "Need an audience?"

Getting off the bed, she took his hand and pulled him from the room. Logan bowed to the inevitable and followed her up the spiral staircase to the rooftop terrace.  _Maybe if I fuck her she'll stop talking and go to bed_.

Logan scanned the terrace. There were no visible cameras and no places to hide one. The only furnishings were two adjustable chaise lounge chairs —black wrought iron with white cushions,  _of course_ — and a table between them. Both chairs were in full view of the surrounding apartment buildings.  _Showtime for the neighbors_.

Daffy guided him to the nearest chaise —the one that was already fully reclined— and gave him a gentle push. Sitting, he grabbed the back of his collar, yanked his shirt over his head, and tossed it on the floor. Then he toed off his sneakers.

She reached for his zipper. "I'm gonna fuck you so good."

He closed his eyes so she wouldn't see him rolling them.

She started tugging his jeans down and Logan lay back, lifting his hips to assist with the removal of his pants. Kneeling on the foot of the chaise, she cupped his balls with one hand and stroked his dick with the other. Logan watched himself grow hard in her skilled hands and felt nothing.

"Doesn't this feel good, baby?"

Offering her a non-committal,  _mmm_ , he rested his head on the cushion and stared at the sky. Daffy's mouth joined her hands. She started slow, licking and sucking just the tip and then she slid her mouth over him, taking him deep into the back of her throat.

It wasn't the worst blow job and it wasn't the best; it just was.

_How many different girls have I fucked since Veronica left?_  He started counting.  _Ten?_  He frowned, unsure if he should include Parker and then decided - _fuck it: eleven_. It wasn't an astronomical number. But it was getting easier and easier to divorce himself from the act. He let his body get off while his mind was elsewhere.  _Like now_.

"I'm going to come," he warned.

Daffy pulled her head back, releasing him with a  _pop_. "I'm sooo  _wet_." Crawling up the lounge chair, she sat on his stomach and took his hand, guiding it to her cunt so he could feel it for himself. Logan shoved three fingers inside and started to pump. She rode his hand, keeping up her steady stream of dirty talk. He tuned out the words and the exaggerated groaning and rubbed her clit with his thumb.

_Natalie_  —aside from being his first— was the first one to teach him that emotions didn't need to be involved to have sex and he'd slept with enough women to know this was true. But this was different. These random hookups weren't about 'not feeling' something for the woman he was with, they'd devolved into not feeling  _anything_.

Daffy came on his hand. Logan removed his fingers and wiped them on the side of the cushion. She plucked his jeans off the floor and retrieved a condom from his pocket. She tore the foil packet and rolled the condom over his dick. Turning her back to him, she rose up on her knees and slowly started to lower herself onto him. Logan jerked his hips off the lounge chair, burying himself completely inside her.

" _Fuck_ ," she spit the curse out on a groan. Leaning forward, she balanced her weight on her hands and started to move, lifting herself almost completely off him before slamming back down. "Stick your thumb up my ass."

Logan obliged- fucking her ass with his thumb while she fucked him.

_Three hundred and nineteen days and eleven women_. He'd felt something for Parker –  _at first_. She was funny  _and_  fun to be around. They had a good time together. It was  _easy_  being with her. Without all the pressure and demands and unrealistic expectations for him to be something he wasn't, he found himself being a better person. Then he broke her with his inability to actually  _care_  about  _her_  and not Veronica.  _'I look at you and know you love her.'_

Daffy arched her back and moaned as she pumped faster.

_Will I ever_ stop _loving Veronica?_  He knew the answer to that question. The answer was there in the dull ache inside his chest; the persistent pain of missing her. He'd mourned Lilly. Her death made his life feel like Daffy's apartment – colorless. The  _unfairness_  of it all turned him into this seething ball of anger lashing out at everyone. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the intolerable agony of losing Veronica.  _I'm dead inside_.

Daffy's body started to shake and he could feel her muscles convulse around him as she came. Pulling his thumb from her ass, he gripped her waist and increased the pace. His hips bucked off the chaise while she squeezed and released her pelvic muscles, milking out his orgasm.

"That was amazing." Planting her feet on the floor, her legs spread open across the chaise, she slowly stood. "Rest up" —her hands glided over the generous curve of her ass— "And I'll let you fuck me in the ass next."

Logan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He didn't want to fuck her in the ass or anywhere else – he wanted to go… some place,  _any_  place, that wasn't here. Rolling off the lounge chair, he took off the condom and padded into the house in stockinged feet. Thanks to her earlier tour, he found the bathroom without a problem. Locking the door behind him, he flushed the condom and took a shower.

_Why am I still here?_  His mouth twisted in a rueful grimace. He knew  _exactly_  why he was still here:  _Shelly-fucking- Pomroy's party_.

It was not the same. Molly was  _not_  GHB. Daffy would  _not_  be waking up tomorrow unable to remember the events of tonight's rave. He didn't drug her without her knowledge.  _Consent – give permission for something to happen._

_Fun? Like sex with unconscious people fun?_

Veronica didn't want to talk about it. He'd been patient; not pushing her for answers and waiting for her to come to him when she was ready. The only conversation they ever had about it was the day on her living room sofa.  _I was drugged but I wasn't… I was with Duncan_.

Logan clenched his fists. Without her knowledge, he'd gone to both Luke and Sean to find out which one of them had drugged her. Sean still had his GHB and Luke said he gave his to Dick. When Logan had confronted Dick, he  _swore_  he didn't dose Veronica and that the drugs were for him and Madison. Tad claimed the same thing – he'd used his with his girlfriend. Stymied, Logan had  _wanted_  to ask Veronica who it was, but he didn't. She'd seemed so  _relieved_  to find out she was with Duncan and so  _eager_  to put the entire thing behind her that he let it go.

_With her_. He let the subject go,  _with her_ , but he couldn't stop thinking about it. While Veronica was good at convincing herself of a lot of things, he didn't share her gift for denial. Logan knew he was responsible for Duncan's impaired judgment. He'd tried to convince himself that the effects of a dose of GHB on Duncan, a one-hundred and sixty-five pound guy, were  _vastly_  different from the effects on one tiny blonde. But he knew that was just so much bullshit. He'd drugged Duncan and Duncan had — _hurt? assaulted? raped?_ — Veronica. Some of the blame had to fall squarely on Logan's shoulders.

And then there was the Beaver revelation.

There had been  _no_  conversation about that  _at all_. Not one word. Veronica answered Lamb's questions about the events on the roof omitting all references to her rape - spitting out the words with pure hatred in her eyes. Logan had never seen Veronica look at anyone the way she glared at Lamb that night while giving her statement. Logan knew there was something going on —some undercurrent that he was missing— but Veronica never explained.

Logan had tried:  _'so you and Lamb? What's that all about?'_  And she'd dismissed him with:  _'He's an asshole.'_ End of subject.

When he'd tried broaching the subject of Cassidy, she'd leveled him with an icy stare and complete silence. Then she'd retreated into herself and disappeared from his life for a week. No phone calls, no texts –nothing.

Logan shook his head. Veronica could run without ever leaving the room. She could be with him one minute and gone the next while still standing in front of him. So for her to add physical distance to the freeze-out meant this was something she would  _never_  talk to him about, ever. He hung his head.  _She's not going to talk to me about_ anything _anymore; she's gone._


	17. 324 DAYS

**324 DAYS**

_Now maybe, I did not mean to treat you bad, but I did it anyway… Some would say your life was sad, but you lived it anyway… I didn't mean to treat you bad, but you left me far behind… Left me far behind._

Logan didn't bother returning to Neptune. He'd left the Shelby in a long-term parking lot on Sepulveda and taken the shuttle to LAX where he'd stared at the departures until a flight caught his interest.  _Vanuatu_. More specifically the island of Tanna and Mount Yasur - the birthplace of volcano surfing.  _Perfect_.

He stared at the white netting surrounding his bed. It was meant for practical purposes —protection from mosquitoes— but it gave the bure an exotic romanticism Not enough to elevate it from what it was —a wood and straw hut in the middle of nowhere— but maybe enough for a Paul Bowles novel.

He'd lost two days in travel and one day waiting for access to the crater. It was a level three restriction. Severe activity with loud explosions, plumes of smoke and ash, and lava bombs ejected up to hundreds of feet outside the crater itself.  _Boarding on the surface of hell_. Logan smirked.  _That should be the title of my autobiography_.

The resort offered snorkeling through the underwater reefs, but Logan chose brooding in his bure. Alliteration.  _See, I was paying attention in English class, Tom_. He couldn't stop thinking about his night with Daffy. His disgust with himself, not the woman. This was his pattern. Feel rejected and unloved and climb on top of the first willing female he could find.  _Pathetic_.

He scrolled through his memory looking for the first pathetic fuck and his mind landed on Shelly. It was after his second(?) breakup with Lilly. Logan squeezed his eyes closed. It was on a bench in the deserted Neptune High gym. Logan picked the location specifically because he knew Pep Squad practice was supposed to take place after school that day and he  _wanted_  Lilly to catch them. Yes, definitely their second breakup because Lilly had fucked…  _Brett_ … in Logan's bed.

He'd burned those sheets on his father's fancy barbecue grill.

Disgust didn't stop him from repeating his pattern. Logan turned his head and studied the delicate curve of  _Rio's_  spine. They'd met in the main bar —the  _only_  bar— at the resort. She'd bought him a Tusker beer and he'd allowed himself to be picked up by a beautiful woman. It was nice not having to do any of the work and she'd provided mediocre company and okay sex. Or, was it okay company and mediocre sex?

_Awareness is the first step toward change, my ass_. There was a void in his life he was trying to fill. Sex, drugs…  _alcohol_. He held up the bottle of scotch in a silent toast to desperation and took a swig. He was  _aware_  of the large, gaping, Veronica-shaped hole in his chest. Or was it a Lilly-shaped hole? Lynn-shaped? Didn't matter because awareness was not leading to change.

_All the women I love leave me_. Aaron was responsible for the first two - figuratively and literally. But it was possible he was the reason for Veronica's departure, too. Not due to the fallout from the fridge on fire, but because of the seeds he'd planted inside Logan- using meaningless sex to feel better about yourself (Madison) and thinking violence could solve a problem (Piz). It made Logan uncomfortable. To hold his life up against his father's and see the similarities.  _Now maybe I could have made my own mistakes, but I live with what I've known_.

He stared at the bottle of oxy on the nightstand.  _Will I be my dad or my mom? Decisions, decisions_. He was truly fucked.  _Maybe the best thing Veronica ever did was to get away from me_. If he turned into his dad, would it lead her to a bridge somewhere? And if he became Lynn…

_Couldn't share the pain, they watch you suffer_.


	18. 333 DAYS

**333 DAYS**

"— _kept saying, she's dead, she's dead."_

" _Who's dead?"_

" _I don't know... Veronica?"_

Logan groaned and tried to force his eyes open. The smell of shit and vomit was overwhelming. His stomach heaved. He tried lifting his head and couldn't do it.

"Help me get him on his side." It was Pam's voice.

Rough hands rolled him and then he was puking. Logan could feel it ooze down his face landing on his bare chest. Throwing up didn't stop the cramping in his stomach, and his bowels loosened.

 _So hot._  Logan was on fire and yet he was shivering. Snot and tears mixed with the vomit sliding down his face. He raised an arm to wipe his mouth — _too heavy_ — and let it fall back to his side.

"It's okay; you're going to be okay."  _Pam's voice again_.

A warm washcloth brushed his face as gentle fingers stroked his hair. The sound of rushing water penetrated his brain seconds before the first droplets pelted his skin. They hurt; every inch of him hurt.

"Ronnie's not dead, Logan."  _Dick_ \- it was Dick talking to him.

Sobs racked his body and he pressed his face into the cool porcelain of the tub. The washcloth and the stream of water moved down his body working in concert to clean the shit and vomit away from his skin.

**XXXXX**

It was quiet.

There was whispering and Logan rolled toward the sound, struggling to open his eyes. He was no longer in the bathtub, but someplace soft.  _A bed_.

"… _more Narcan?"_

" _The doc is bringing some when he comes back."_

Fingers gripped Logan's jaw, forcing his mouth open and a plastic medicine spoon was shoved between his teeth. The chalky, fake-mint taste of Imodium made him gag. A straw replaced the medicine spoon and he sucked in the grape-flavored water.

"It's Pedialyte to help with dehydration."

Logan nodded at Pam's explanation. "Where—"

"Dick's beach house" — she draped a cool washcloth across his forehead — "How do you feel?"

 _Like I'm dying_. He groaned at the reminder. "She's dead," Logan whispered.

The edge of the bed shifted under Pam's weight. She stroked the washcloth over his face. It didn't help. He was hot, but the dampness of the bedding gave him chills with every rotation of the ceiling fan. It was his own sweat soaking the sheets, turning his skin clammy.

"Veronica isn't dead, Logan. Dick checked."

"Not Veronica." He forced his eyes open. "What do you mean- Dick checked?"

"He called her dad."

 _Fuck_. He could just imagine how that conversation went-

' _Yeah, hey, this is Dick Casablancas, you know, Logan's friend. So like, is Ronnie dead, dude?_

_No? Are you sure 'cause Logan almost OD'd and he's rambling some crazy shit about her being six feet under._

_Yeah, speedballing.'_

Logan didn't think it was possible for him to slide any lower in Keith's esteem , but  _that_  phone call from Dick would've just confirmed Keith's sanctimonious opinion.  _Fuck Keith Mars -judgmental prick_. So what if Keith knew he was using; it wasn't like he could do anything about it.  _Except tell Veronica_.

"Logan." Pam's anxious tone irritated him.

"What," he snapped. His entire body ached. This was worse than the beating he'd taken from the PCHers on the bridge and his legs wouldn't stop twitching. Logan pressed his fist into his thigh.

"Why did you think Veronica was dead?"

"Stop saying that!" His stomach roiled and his gut spasmed. Nausea washed over him, making his head spin, and the urge to vomit was intense.

"I think he's gonna puke again." Dick dropped the bottles he was holding onto the mattress and quickly rolled Logan on his side while Pam lifted a trashcan to his mouth. The splash of vomit against the plastic side of the wastebasket and the sour smell of bile made him heave.

When he was done, he fell back onto the pillows and Pam gave him more Pedialyte. "He needs to eat something." She glanced at Dick. "Go make him some chicken soup and toast."

If he didn't feel like shit, the expression on Dick's face would have been comical. He looked  _offended_  that Pam would suggest he  _cook_  something. Dick's eyes widened and his mouth hung open. "In the kitchen?"

"No, in the fucking bathroom. Open a can of soup and put it in… Never mind, I'll do it." She got off the bed. "Watch his breathing." Her eyes roamed over the items on the bed and she grabbed an orange box. "If he starts having trouble give him" —she stared at Dick and shook her head— "If he starts having trouble, call me."

"I don't want to eat," Logan protested. The idea of food made his stomach clench.

"Tough shit," Pam called over her shoulder as she walked away.

"Bitch." He said it loud enough for her to hear, but it didn't elicit a response.

"You should be nicer to her; she saved your life, dude." Dick waved another one of the orange boxes in the air. "This is like some miracle shit. I thought you were a goner for sure." His voice trembled on the word  _goner_  and he turned away.

Logan gave him a baleful stare. "Why did you call Keith- _fucking_ -Mars?"

Dick shrugged. "I wanted to know if it was true."

"Gee, hopeful much?" Logan wanted to punch him. Punch the concerned, worried expression right off his fucking face. Dick had  _no right_  to be angry with Veronica. After what Beaver…  _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He clutched the sides of his head. "What are those pills?" Logan was hoping for something useful —Valium, Percocet, Demerol— something to silence his thoughts and make his body stop hurting.

Another shrug. "Your girl— Uh,  _Pam_  made me get them."

A blender went off in the kitchen and it set off an explosion inside Logan's head. Moaning, he curled onto his side. "She should've let me die," he muttered.

It was the heroin. As the coke wore off he'd kept redosing while the heroin was still buzzing through his body, but he couldn't stop. The initial high was  _amazing_ and he'd wanted to do it over and over again. Completely blissed out. For the first time in  _months_  —fuck it,  _years_ — his head had been quiet. The closer to the edge of death, the more alive he'd felt. Then he'd started sweating and he couldn't breathe. Logan knew something was wrong and...  _lights out_.

Pam was back carrying a tray. She set it on the bedside table. "Help me sit him up."

Dick took hold of his shoulders and Logan screamed. His muscles spasmed, tightening into hard knots of pain. Dick immediately let him go and he slumped back down on the mattress.

A frown creased Pam's brow. "After he drinks this, we'll put him in a hot bath." She shoved a smoothie in Dick's hand. "Hold this for him while I get his pills."

Chafed, Logan clamped his mouth shut. He was  _not_  going to drink whatever the fuck that was. The two of them were grating on his nerves. Chicken soup and hot baths and a fucking  _child's_  medicine spoon for crissakes. He was done with this shit. What he wanted was for them to leave so he could get his stash of oxy and make the pain go away. His eyes darted to the speakers beside the television.

"They're gone, man." Dick shoved the straw between Logan's lips.

"Drink it," Pam ordered. "It's a protein shake with bananas- you need the potassium." She was shaking pills from the various bottles. Logan sipped the shake. "Are you going to take these or do I have to push them down your throat?"

"What are they?"

"L-tyrosine, vitamin B6, zinc, magnesium." She listed them as she fed them to him making sure he swallowed each. "Now finish your shake."

"Fuck you," he spit the words through clenched teeth.

"There's not going to be much fucking if you're dead so…"

Logan tuned her out.  _Dead_. Closing his eyes, he nursed the chocolate and banana shake. Each sip made his stomach slosh around his abdomen.  _Jane…_

**XXXXX**

_The caller ID read: San Diego County. Logan considered ignoring the call, but then thought,_ what the fuck _, and answered, "Make it interesting."_

_There was a slight pause at his weird greeting. "Is this Logan Echolls?" The officious tone set off warning bells in his head._

" _Yeah, who is this?"_

" _Echolls? Like the movie star, Aaron Echolls?"_

_Logan gritted his teeth regretting his haste in hitting accept. There had to be a better way to pass the time waiting for Sean than talking to this asshole. The silence stretched._

_When the caller realized he wasn't going to get confirmation, he continued. "This is Deputy Hayes with the San Diego Sheriff's Department and we would like you to come_ — _"_

" _No." Is what he said and 'shit' is what he was thinking. His brain scrambled for a reason the Sheriff's Department would be calling him- the_ San Diego _Sheriff's Department. Could you arrest someone for street racing if you didn't catch them in the car? Logan didn't know._

" _We normally don't like to do this over the phone."_

" _Normal isn't the way I do anything."_

_There was another pause, this one longer than the first. "Do you know an Emily Mattieson?"_

_Logan frowned. With his habit of naming his random hookups after song lyrics, anything was possible. He went with denial. "No."_

_The Deputy dropped his overly-solicitous tone. "Were you mugged recently?"_

" _What, is there not enough crime in San Diego that you're randomly calling citizens to find a case? No, I wasn't_ mugged _recently."_

" _An unidentified female was brought into the morgue last night- she was carrying your credit card- a platinum Visa."_

 _Logan banged his head against the bench._ Jane, I told you to go home _. "What happened to her?"_

" _I thought you didn't know her?" The cop sounded worried like he'd made a major mistake delivering bad news to a loved one over the telephone._

" _Curiosity."_

" _I'm sorry, but it's an open investigation." A shuffling sound came through the speaker like papers being gathered together. "Any idea how she got your credit card?"_

" _Nope." He'd never canceled it. After dropping her off at the motel, he'd walked away and forgotten all about it_ and _her. His chest hurt._ I'm a prick _. Sean was walking across the quad and he was almost at the bench. "Anything else?"_

" _No. Thank you for your_ — _"_

_Disconnecting the call, he looked at Sean. "You have any H?"_


	19. 335 DAYS

**335 DAYS**

"Logan doesn't give a shit."

"Then why did he do all the work, genius?" Pam was pissed. Logan turned off the tub jets so he could listen to her unleash her fury on Dick. "Just take these to Professor… whatever her name is and explain that he's sick."

"But he's not sick."

"Don't fuck this up for him or you'll be a dick without one."

"Huh?"

Logan slid beneath the water, drowning them out. Half of him was in agreement with Dick – he didn't give a shit – and yet he _did_ do the work so part of him had to care, _right?_ When he could no longer breathe and his lungs started to burn, he popped his head from the water. _Why does everything in my life have to be complicated?_

"How are you feeling?" Pam bent over the tub, trailing her fingers through the water to test the temperature. She released the drain to let out some of the cooling water and then turned on the tap for hot.

He glared at her. "You can't save me so stop trying."

"Great. I'll just take off this nun's habit" —she waved a hand over her skimpy jean shorts and lace camisole— "and let Mother Superior know I failed in my mission."

Logan rolled his eyes and answered her earlier question. "I feel like shit thanks to that crap you gave me."

"That _crap_ saved your life; you're welcome, by the way." Pam flipped the toilet lid closed and sat down. "And this isn't the Narcan, it's withdrawal." She frowned at the quiet tub. "You should turn the jets back on."

"Where did you get the Narcan?"

"High rollers dying in the VIP room is bad for business." Again she leaned over the tub, this time turning on the whirlpool along with the neck massaging waterfall. "It will keep your muscles from cramping," she said by way of explanation.

"Do you follow those high rollers home and draw baths for them too?" He recognized his belligerence, but he simply didn't give a fuck. "And why are you still here? Shouldn't you be back in Vegas?"

"Stop being a dick." She towered over him with her hands on her hips. "I took vacation time."

"I don't need a nurse and FYI, I'm not paying you."

"You're such an asshole." She collapsed on the edge of the tub with her back to him. Tilting her head, she stared out the window, and changed the subject. "I gave your paper to Dick to bring to that professor."

"Why?"

"Because you wrote it and it's good." Pam swiveled to face him. "Plus you need it to pass this semester."

The research paper was the last project from Boring Brach's massive file. He'd turned in the other assignments at his first official meeting with _Lorraine_ on Friday before the call from the San Diego Sheriff's Department and the news about— Logan cut off the thought and said, "It wasn't finished."

"I typed your bibliography yesterday while you were sleeping." Logan stared at her, mouth agape, and she shrugged. "Stripping doesn't make a person an idiot, I went to college."

"Yeah, well, stripping at a frat party doesn't count as going to college." He closed his eyes to avoid seeing the wounded look in hers.

_God, I really am an asshole_.

The other papers were easy to write. He read a book and bullshitted his way through ten pages of pretentious analysis discussing symbolism and _themes_. It is better to be feared than loved, _blah, blah, blah_. He'd written all five papers on the plane back from Vanuatu.

Brach had _not_ been duly-impressed with his prompt delivery: 'I trust the speed with which you completed the work is not reflective of its quality. Slapdash and shoddy are not the kind of effort I expect.' _Happy to disappoint you, Lorraine._

The research paper was different. All the suggested topics read like chapter headings to his life story: domestic violence, statutory rape, sex offenders, infidelity, child abuse, suicide, drug abuse. Logan was _positive_ that his professor was a sadistic fuck with a sick sense of humor and that he'd assigned those topics to ensure Logan's failure. _Bite me, Professor Montgomery_.

He bolted upright, muscles clenching in protest at the sudden movement, and glared at Pam. "You read my paper."

" _Riiight_ ," she said the word with the same inflection as _duh_ and then added, "To. Type. Your. Bibliography," deliberately enunciating each word like Logan was daft.

Screwing his eyes closed, he slumped in the water, knocking his head against the lip of the bathtub. Pain radiated through his skull.

It wasn't autobiographical. No one was going to get the details of his life story from a college assignment. There was already too much information in the public domain, thanks to his appearance on Larry King, and they weren't getting any more. Certainly not his feelings on the subject, or the visible scars, or the lingering effects on his fucked up life. Logan was done with sharing.

Too bad he couldn't turn off his own thoughts with such ease.

From his thesis statement: society has failed to recognize the complex origins of child abuse and the profound consequences of child victimization, through to the last period, he'd recognized himself in every piece of information. Hyper-vigilance. Mistrustful. Avoidant behavior, leading to rejection or re-victimization. Vulnerable to overwhelming emotional storms. Problems with achievement, aggression, anger management, depression.

"Are you hungry?" Pam's solicitous tone grated.

He ignored her.

Outlining the types of abuse, he'd checked all the boxes: emotional, neglect, physical, family violence, and sexual. There was a story — _multiple_ stories— for each one. Sexual had given him pause, but his _relentless_ memory had supplied the name: Natalie. Soliciting, paying, _bribing_ an _adult_ to screw your thirteen-year-old had to constitute abuse, right? At the least, Aaron procured statutory rape. What was the lingering effect of _that_?

"I brought you another protein shake."

Logan hadn't even noticed she'd left the room. "Don't want it."

"You'll need it to take your vitamins." Pam shoved the drink into his right hand, holding it there until his fingers closed around it. Then she took his left hand and pushed the pills into the center of his palm.

Keeping his eyes on her, he lifted his hand as if he was going take them. Halfway to his mouth, he tilted his palm, letting the vitamins slide from his skin into the churning bath water.

"You're a shitty patient."

He shrugged. "I'm a shitty human being." Staring over the rim of his glass, he said, "You should get far away from me - save yourself." _Like Veronica did_.


	20. 337 DAYS

**337 DAYS**

_Drink life as it comes, straight no chaser_.

Clean and sober his life was even more depressing. It was an endless loop of self-loathing and despair with nothing to take the edge off. The only people who cared about him were an ex-stripper and Dick- _fucking_ -Casablancas. That had to say something.

Alcohol silenced some ghosts and the drugs took care of the rest. Without them, the inside of his head was loud and messy.

Pam suggested an NA meeting. _"It might help to hear other people's stories about how they cope."_ He already _knew_ how he wanted to cope —with an eighth and a bottle of Macallan— but he didn't need to listen to yet another woman nag him about being 'better' so he'd agreed. Just not in Neptune.

Neptune was… suffocating.

The meeting was in Cheviot Hills. Logan was familiar with the Westside neighborhood of Los Angeles. He'd spent a summer there in a studio-rented McMansion while Aaron filmed… _Shitfest: The Sequel_. It was about a twenty minute drive down La Cienega to the Chateau Marmont. Logan had booked a poolside bungalow.

Scoring coke on Sunset in West Hollywood would be the easiest thing he'd ever done in his life.

Except Pam seemed to know this, declaring, _"I'm going with you,"_ thereby ruining his plan of getting fucked up and forgetting, which is why he was here on Hollywood Boulevard acting like a fucking _tourist_.

"How did he go from winning an Oscar to _Vector Force Ten_?"

" _Three_ Oscars," Logan corrected. It was automatic, like breathing. _Never_ undersell Aaron and his accomplishments.

His star was in a good location, right near Hollywood and Vine. Tilting his head back, Logan let his gaze travel to the top of the Capitol Records building. The light at the tip of its antenna spire still flashing the word _Hollywood_ in morse code. _Thanks for even more useless information, Mom_.

Logan wanted to tell himself that he'd stumbled across Aaron's star by accident. But that wasn't true.

Sightseeing was Pam's idea to distract him from the tabloid article. She'd never been to L.A. so Logan took her to Musso's for lunch. He'd given her the same 'golden age of Hollywood' schtick Lynn had given him, regaling her with stories of the infamous Back Room. It was a role he hadn't played in a long time —son of two famous movie stars— but it was easier than being him and he'd performed it with panache. _Papa would be proud_.

They were in front of the Chinese Theater when Logan spotted the guy selling maps. He had a general idea of where the star was located- in the opposite direction of the way they were walking.

It was a lie when he'd told Sean he'd never seen it. There had been a _ceremony_ for the fucking thing. Sidewalks and streets cordoned off, security to hold back the fans, and the press to take photos of the happy Echolls clan. All so proud of another one of Aaron's accomplishments.

His head hurt. A martini — _or ten_ — at lunch would've helped him get through the day, but he was saddled with a newly-minted member of the Dry Police as his companion.

Logan had bought the 'Guide to the Stars' and now he was paying the price. "Can we go back to the hotel now?"

"So I can watch you wallow? No thanks." Her head was buried in a travel guide.

There were times she reminded him of Lilly, especially in bed. With her bold confidence and willingness to try new things. And there were times she made him think of Veronica. Like now. Refusing to take his shit and determined to have it her way.

She peered at him over the rim of her sunglasses. "Let's take a drive up to the Hollywood sign."

"Only if I can throw myself off the top of the H like Peg Entwistle." She leveled him with a _that's-not-funny_ glare. Yep, definitely Veronica-lite. Logan shrugged. "We could have sex and swim."

"Is that your idea of a great pick-up line?"

He smirked. "Charm seems like a wasted effort since I've already picked you up… _several_ times."

"You're a dick."

"So I've been told, also several times." Not caring if she followed, he started walking.

Bored. How did people do this life thing without chemical enhancement? He couldn't even imagine surviving the next _hour_ of this shit never mind the entirety of his existence.

Consoling himself with the fact that it didn't have to be forever —Pam had to go home eventually— he stopped, digging out the car key and handing it to her. Because _of course_ she followed him. Can't let Logan wander off on his own. "Let's go see your sign."

"Much better." Her hand slid up his chest and coiled around his neck, pulling him close. She put her lips against his ear. "Sign first and then we can fuck in the car." Releasing him, she stepped back and grinned. "See, when you're easy and accommodating, so am I."


	21. 338 DAYS

338 DAYS

They didn't fuck in the car.

Not because they didn't want to, but because it was parked miles down the road. They'd followed Mulholland Highway into the canyons, taking it to the end where the pavement gave way to dirt and a gaggle of tourists gawked at a fucking _sign_.

There was no place to stop and turning around was a bitch, but Pam had gotten what she wanted. Now Logan was still waiting for his end of the bargain. With the lack of parking, he'd expected to go back to the hotel and fuck on clean sheets like civilized people, but no. Pam had driven them down the hill only as far as the first available spot.

Then she'd suspiciously pulled a blanket, water, and food from the trunk and insisted he _hike_. "Exercise is good for you; it releases endorphins and will help you stay sober."

"Thanks, Debbie Downer, and yes I know that feline AIDS is the number one killer of domestic cats." She didn't get the reference, giving him a confused look, and he didn't give a fuck. When he didn't explain, she'd shrugged and started up the hill. He'd trudged behind her, his mood growing progressively darker with each step.

Skirting the fence —the _security_ fence designed to keep them out— she'd navigated her way through actual _brush_ , in search of a private spot near the reservoir. The fact that they were probably trespassing and breaking numerous laws in the process had managed to heighten his interest in her little adventure. It was as close to entertained as he'd been all day.

It was the meeting. It had hung over him like his own personal raincloud. _Christ, now I'm a character in a Li'l Abner cartoon_.

Pam had settled on a secluded spot with a prime view of the reservoir. Spreading out the blanket, she'd said, "We can watch the sunset."

"While they tow our car away." This was the NIMBY neighborhood of Beachwood Canyon and he had no doubt that their rental would be gone at precisely one minute after eight. He'd stretched out on the blanket. "But I'm sure you have a _plan_ for getting us out of here."

She'd poked his side with her water bottle. "Play nice."

"You're with the wrong person," he'd said, closing his eyes and tuning her out.

It wasn't the entire NA meeting. Most of it was boring as fuck. Some people should _not_ be allowed to speak in public, like ever. Listening to the minutiae of their lives, shared in tiresome detail made him want to do _more_ drugs, not less. He'd rather watch Aaron perform _Hamlet_ again. On repeat.

_Hello my name is Adam and I'm an addict_.

It was Adam's —statement, testimony, _share_ — that chafed. Addicted to heroin and now clean and sober for fifteen years. _These meetings saved my life_.

_My family was like Vegas - what happens in the family stays in the family. Don't talk about what goes on behind closed doors, our mantra. But I'm going to break the rules. My mother is an institution for chronic depression and suicide attempts…_

Logan had found himself silently arguing with him during the meeting. Chin up, you lucky bastard, at least your mother's still alive. My father killed mine.

_I needed to be sedated just to get through the day_.

Ditto, pal.

_And I fell in love with heroin_.

It was easier being in love with a drug than with _her_. Heroin didn't care about your lack of ambition or hold your past against you. It wasn't judgmental. And it certainly would never tell you to get out of its life forever.

_I used to think, I was broken, because believing I was not good enough was ingrained in me by my family_.

Just your family? _Slacker_. Try not being good enough for your best friend who abandoned and then betrayed you. Your first love who cheated on you with your own father. Teachers, principals, guidance counselors. And Veronica. Not being good enough for Veronica was the killer, because he had _tried_.

_My family is where I learned how to do relationships, so obviously I'm not good with them_.

That one had stung. It had made him think of the saying: 'it can't be everyone else so it has to be you.' He was the common denominator in all his doomed relationships. _He_ was the fuckup and the failure.

_I thought what I was doing to you was okay because I thought what I was doing to ME was okay_.

Logan banged his head against the ground, trying to turn it all _off_. How far _was_ the hike to the Hollywood sign from here? If he paced himself and drank water, he could probably make it. _It was the fall that killed him, officer, but at least he was well-hydrated_.

"Are you still thinking about that article?"

"No."

He hadn't even _begun_ to dwell on that piece of fine reporting. Narcotics Anonymous, my ass.

Anonymous for everyone _not_ named Logan Echolls. The picture was perfect. Nicely framed and unmistakably him. He was leaving the meeting, holding hands with Pam. The brown Cheviot Hills Recreation Center sign readable in the background. It made this morning's entertainment news.

"You should be angrier. At least _'friends'_ are urging me to get help; whereas, you're the harlot who has seduced me into doing very bad things."

"Bad things you say?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest, pulled her t-shirt off, and tossed it on the blanket next to his head. Logan arched a brow as Pam unbuttoned her jeans. "What? I didn't come down here for the _trees_."

Rising up on her knees, she undid her bra. It landed on top of her shirt.

This is what he wanted, right? Sex was the one drug she was willing to let him indulge. His body was responding —anticipating the release of dopamine and oxytocin— but his brain was refusing to cooperate. Sitting up, Logan yanked his shirt over his head.

Pam stood over him, peeling her jeans and thong down her hips. He watched them slide across her thighs, past her knees, landing in a pool at her feet. Stepping out of them, she returned to her knees, straddling his legs. She pushed him back on the blanket and kissed her way from his chest to his stomach. With nimble fingers she undid the button on his jeans, while using her teeth to lower the zipper. Eyes on his face.

It was hot.

Everything she did was hot. Even her voice turned him on. A sexy rumble of whisky and sarcasm. Being with her was easy. There were no expectations, no promises. They got together, had a good time and great sex, and then went their separate ways. It was just the right level of commitment - none.

She tugged off his sneakers, tossing them… somewhere. Logan was too focused on her breasts to give a rat's ass about his _shoes_. They were perfect, full and lush, and sensitive as fuck. Cupping them, he brushed his thumbs over her nipples, and then gently twisted them between his thumbs and forefingers. Her body shuddered.

Pam stripped off his jeans and boxers —securing a condom from his pocket—and then crawled her way up his legs. Ripping open the package with her teeth, she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, and rolled the condom on. She positioned herself above him and started to guide him inside.

Logan grabbed her hips. "Whoa, slow down, Red."

She rocked back on her heels. "Red?" Another woman who did not seem duly-impressed with his originality.

"Mmm-hmm." He rolled them over so he was on top. "As in, _Little Red Corvette_."

Her lips pursed, but her eyes were amused. "So I'm a Prince song?"

"You're probably _multiple_ Prince songs." She was sex personified. Brushing her hair aside, he touched his nose to her neck, inhaling her scent. The pleasant, earthy smell of a fresh rain mixed with wildflower sweetness. Logan pressed a kiss on her skin.

Pam reached between them, fingers stroking the head of his cock. " _Okaay_ … and speaking of multiples.. Are we going to do more than talk?" She spread her legs beneath him and with one quick thrust, Logan buried himself deep inside.

Pausing, Logan closed his eyes. He knew exactly what was wrong. Why his brain was having a hard time catching up to his body. This was their first time without being high on something. _His_ first time having sex completely sober since Veronica left. He started to move, rocking his hips into hers.

It was dangerous. Unprotected sex of a different kind. The kind that could get messy and complicated. He didn't want to hurt her and he knew that he could — _would_ — without even trying.


	22. 339 DAYS

339 DAYS

He'd returned to Neptune solo. It was easier that way. The minute the plane touched down on the tarmac and cell phone use was allowed, he'd dialed Sean. Oxy and heroin withdrawal was no joke and he had no desire to go through _that_ again, but a little weed and some scotch were still on the menu. _And coke_. Must not forget about the coke.

Sean promised delivery right to his door. This afternoon.

Dick was gone, the house empty, and Logan had started his search. He checked the obvious places first - the liquor and medicine cabinets. Both were completely cleaned out, not even a fucking _aspirin_. Lifting the lid of the toilet tank, he looked for the ziploc bag of pot taped to the side. Gone.

His drawers were next. They were rearranged. All of his clothes were clean and neatly folded, stacked in tidy piles. Clearly, this was not Dick's handiwork. Logan went through them anyway, unrolling his socks in search of an emergency cocaine stash. Nothing.

He pulled out all the drawers, turning them over to check the undersides for the taped glassine envelopes. Dropping to his knees, he reached into the bare holes of the dresser, hoping that one of the pretty little packages had come loose and fallen. Logan came up empty-handed.

Rocking back on his heels, he eyed the air vent. _Why didn't I have the cab driver stop at the liquor store?_ This search would be better with a buzz. Getting a screwdriver from the kitchen, he opened the vent and found zilch.

It was time to get more creative. There was _no way_ they could have found _all_ of his hiding spots. He pried the covers off the speakers, but Dick wasn't kidding when he'd said they'd gotten rid of the pills hidden there.

The back of the Playstation, between the pages of 1984, and inside the hollow leg of the coffee table. Empty, empty, empty. _What? Did they hire a drug-sniffing DOG to assist with the clean-out?_ Even his Bic pens were just pens. No coke filling up their barrels.

Logan sprawled on the floor and lit a cigarette. He wasn't even good at being an addict. Too busy _using_ the drugs to save enough for a rainy day.

If he was a better person, he might describe this fruitless and frantic search as sad, pitiful even, and he might wonder at the _why_ of it all, but he was not that guy. He was the lazy, self-indulgent, rich kid who was bored and had too much time on his hands. Oh, and a death wish. Can't forget THAT.

_What is_ she _doing right now?_ It was a thought that surfaced in his brain several times a day, but usually he pushed it away. Four o'clock on a Friday. _Working some menial job on campus_ , he decided.

During one of his psych classes, they'd discussed parents who had lost a child.

_Lost_ , what a stupid fucking euphemism. He didn't _lose_ his mother. She wasn't misplaced. Logan knew _exactly_ where she was - decomposing at the bottom of the San Diego Bay. He took a long pull on his cigarette, letting the ash fall on the floor.

The class concerned the long-term effects of the death and one of the interesting things was how parents always knew where their child would be _right now_ if they were alive. They could tell you their age — _he would be eighteen now_ — and what would be happening in their life — _he would be heading off to college now_. They marked the time by watching their child's former peers. It wasn't just the physical loss, but of missing out on all the future stuff. No graduations, no weddings, no grandchildren.

Logan had thought of Veronica. _When do you not, jackass?_ He shook his head. _Where the fuck was Sean?_

He missed her and, like those parents, it wasn't just her presence, but the contemplation of an entire life without her. He'd missed her twentieth birthday and this year she'd turn twenty-one, legal drinking age. There would be no more birthdays. No bow-adorned room key gifts.

He didn't know anything about her summer internship with the FBI or if she was going back this year. He had no clue about her friends. _Did she_ have _friends at Stanford?_ There was no future. No getting together and saying, _remember that time we_ …

They wouldn't grow old together in the same space. It made the idea of _even_ growing old something not worth contemplating. How did Blondie put it? _Die young, stay pretty. You gotta live fast 'cause it won't last. So die young, stay pretty_.

Knocking.

_Halle-fucking-lujah!_ He jackknifed off the floor, stubbing his cigarette out in a bowl on the coffee table, and went to get the door. "It's about fucking—"

The word _time_ withered on his lips. Boring Brach, not Sean, stood on his doorstep. "Why are you not sitting in my office, Mr. Echolls?"

" _Hmm_ , perhaps because I'm not an uptight educator who likes to harass former students?"

"Former?" _Obviously, the woman did NOT appreciate his sarcastic wit_. She looked _at_ his eyes. Not _in_ his eyes. This wasn't eye-contact; she was _inspecting_ them, checking his pupils and sclera for dilation and redness.

"Don't fret, I'm not stoned."

Nodding, she took in his appearance —bare chest and boardshorts—and said, "It's Friday."

"Thanks for the update." He started to close the door and she smacked her palm against it, holding it open, and pushing her way inside. Logan stepped back. "Gee, this is kinda forward of you, but… I've got an hour to kill." Shutting the door with his fingertips, he twirled around to face her, and leaned a hip against the wall. "Are we going to role play? If so, I think _I_ should be the professor- stretch my acting chops."

Frowning disapproval, Brach put a hand on her hip, and, with the other, bounced her briefcase on her leg. "I have the grades from your extra credit papers."

"Bully for you." Logan swirled his finger in the air. _Woopty-fucking-doo_. Sighing, Lorraine sat on the edge of the sofa. He waved a hand across the couch. "By all means, please make yourself at home."

Ignoring him, she set her briefcase on the coffee table, and withdrew his six papers. She dealt them face-up across the table. Six papers: three A's, two B's, and one B minus. The last on his research paper about child abuse, assigned by Professor Montgomery - the dick who wanted him to fail. "You're now in good standing in all your classes and on track to pass this semester."

She stared at him, waiting, and Logan returned the stare. He didn't know what she expected. Joy? Gratitude? This didn't mean anything to him. Sure, he could continue his education, put in another two years at Hearst for a degree. Or, he could finish the semester and reverse transfer to a community school, get his associate's degree. But they were both just pieces of paper. What was he really going to do with either of them?

Logan blinked first, dropping into the chair across from her. "Was that it? Or were you waiting for me to serve afternoon tea?"

"Why did you enroll in college, Logan?"

Complicated.

To be near Veronica was the simple answer. Trying to measure up and prove he was worthy of her was getting closer to the truth. Wanting something more —an accomplishment that he _earned_ , a _life_ for himself, a future— was both the longing and the fear. Longing because he wanted to find worth in his sorry excuse for an existence and fear because he would discover he had none.

"To get an education of course."

At his flippant answer, her lips thinned. "What do you want out of life?"

God, she was persistent and annoying. "You to leave my house." She remained perched on his sofa, immovable and unfazed by his rudeness. Composed. _Fuck_. "You're wasting your time, you know; I'm never going to amount to anything."

"I don't think that's true."

"Then you're not paying attention."

Three loud knocks rattled the front door. Logan's eyes darted to it and then back to Lorraine. Door, Lorraine, door. _Fuck it._ Popping out of his chair, he went to greet Sean.

Shoulders hunched, head ducked and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Sean looked like he was being watched by the cops or was a nervous teenager about to lose his virginity. "Uh, Dick's not home is he?"

"No," Logan said, pulling the cash from his pocket.

Sean relaxed. "Guy's an asshole." He withdrew two ziploc bags from his hoodie. "An ounce of each, right?"

Logan took the bags, handed him the wad of hundreds, and shut the door on Sean's offer of oxy. Carrying them inside, he set the coke and weed atop his graded papers on the coffee table in front of Lorraine. A challenge. She barely glanced at them. "Do you want to die, Logan?"

"No," he barked. And there it was. Someone had finally asked the question out loud. Dropping into the chair, he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I just… I don't want to be _here_."

To her credit, she didn't ask him to clarify 'here'; she understood _here_ meant all of it- this room, Neptune, his _life_.

"Then you have a choice to make." Lorraine slid the papers from beneath the drugs, tapped them together and put them in a pile on one side of the coffee table. She pushed the coke and pot toward the opposite end. "I had your absence this week excused due to illness." Picking up her briefcase, she stood. "I hope to see you in class on Monday, but if I don't, I'll know your decision."


End file.
